


Loved and Lost

by thoughtswhilstdrinkingtea



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bisexual Harry Potter, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2016-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-15 03:54:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 92,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1290319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thoughtswhilstdrinkingtea/pseuds/thoughtswhilstdrinkingtea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Voldemort won the battle of Hogwarts, and Harry and his friends have been forced to live on the run ever since. Now, five years later, they plot to kidnap the Dark Lord's right hand man: Lucius Malfoy. Except, Lucius is dead, and they end up with his son instead.<br/>Harry is tired, and afraid of what he's becoming.<br/>Draco doesn't know what he believes in anymore.<br/>Through secret meetings and desperation for someone to understand, the two men, now so far from the boys they once were, discover that they may have more in common than they once thought. There's still a war going on though, and trying to figure out what they mean to each other is made all the more complicated by the price on Harry's head and the dangers that Draco faces when he chooses to stand by him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

I don’t know much about love, though it’s almost destroyed me. I do know that it’s stood in the way of the power and money I once wanted. I wouldn’t have risked my life and reputation to save another, and the deaths of my family would have barely affected me. Tonight, after all that has happened, I am left with nothing. I glance at the sleeping figure that lies next to me and sigh. Nothing left but him, that is. And tonight, that is enough. Love is enough. Yet to some, love is invaluable and weakening, so perhaps I would be better of if I were completely alone.

I turn on to my back to stare up the ceiling. Am I in love with him? It would explain why I’ve gone to such lengths to protect him. It would explain why I could never truly walk away from him. I’ve never said it out loud, neither of us have. But I see the fondness in his eyes, and I suppose it could be love. For him, love comes as naturally as breathing. Above all else, I wish I had the time for us to be happy, for us to have a future.

But I know what I have to do.

Granger said something to me a few weeks back, just after the funeral:

“’Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”

I lie awake in this black silence, running those words through my mind and hoping that there’s some truth in them. The reality is that some people have the luxury of growing old together, of having at least a chance of happiness. There have been too few days in which there has been cause for joy, and too many filled with grief and pain. We’ve never had the good days that people are meant to have. We’ve never spent winter evenings curled up in front of a fire, or passed warm afternoons beneath the sun, our hands clasped together as we walk.

It’s not that I want that life. I’ve never wanted a life like that. But maybe it would make this less painful. Maybe if there was some happiness I could look back on, the dark days ahead would be almost bearable.

The past few years have changed me so completely that I hardly know who I am anymore. I wear my mistakes like scars, my betrayals and sacrifices feel like chains around my neck. And the love I now feel? Most people saw it before I did, though I’ll never understand how. Perhaps they noticed it in the way I now move, as though my every gesture is gravitated towards him.

That sounds like sentimental bullshit, but I’m a little reassured that people see some goodness in me, even though I cannot see it myself. As far as I’m concerned, I’ve never done anything of enough significance to be defined as either “good” or “evil,” just a spoilt brat that supports whoever can offer the most power.

It’s only now that I have begun to be driven by different emotions.

My parents taught me that love is about obedience and respect, a weakness that should be hidden and not flaunted. Most of my childhood and teenage years were spent doing whatever my family expected me to do, no matter what. Because that was what family meant to me, what love meant to me, for so long. I believed this for many years, and even now I know little about what it means to care for someone this much. I have always known how to value my own skin, to do whatever it takes to get out of a situation virtually untainted. And yet feeling this way about another person, my desire not to save myself but to save _him,_ is a new concept entirely.

I spent the majority of my life knowing almost nothing about love. Now I find myself drowning in it.

Love is painful. It’s tiresome and confusing and infuriating. Most days I’m suffocating in the anger and heartache and guilt of it all.

I don’t really know what love is meant to be like, but surely it shouldn’t be this difficult.

Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all? Love hurts, and losing someone you love hurts even more. I’ve felt that pain, seen what it does to others, and I see no reason why it’s such a treasured emotion. Love is complicated, and is too often mixed in with hate in my experience.

Tonight, the sky is dark; clouds obscure the stars. No one is awake to watch me scratch a quick note on yellowing parchment, my quill tearing holes in the paper from pressing too hard. A time, a place, a promise, that’s all it is. I need to get these words out, force them from my hand, or they’ll be lost forever.

I have to do this.

It’s the only way.

My hand trembling, I write another note. The same time and place, a different promise.  I fold it, a careful crease that divides the message in half, and tuck it under the pillow. I sigh quietly, my hand lingering next to where his fist is curled beside his head, the faint words from school days still scarring his skin. My fingers brush against his, just briefly, and my chest tightens painfully.

I hold the same hand in front of my face and try to stop it shaking. I can’t let my fear show, even if there is no one to see. Fear makes you weak. Fear should be hidden. If I tremble tomorrow, if my words fail me and the terror shows in my eyes, I’ll be dead.

Maybe dying wouldn’t be so bad.

I shake my head, dismissing this thought. If I die before he arrives, he’ll know something is wrong and it’ll all be for nothing.

I have to do some good in this world, though I deserve damnation for my insubstantial loyalties.

I wish there was another way.

I wince at the loud flurry of feathers that accompany my owl as he disappears into the night, but my companion barely stirs.

I cast my eyes over his face, marveling in its naivety. A part of me hopes that he never wakes; the other knows that he has to.

I press a quick kiss to his forehead and leave the room; I can’t stay, watching his steady breaths and knowing that they are numbered; feeling his strong heartbeats and counting down the hours until they stop.

My actions are my own, and I would need too many words to explain them to him.

I don’t know much about love, but I’m holding onto it like a rock in a stormy sea, hoping it’s enough to save me.

It’s not. Nothing is enough to save me now.

I don’t want to be saved. I don’t want to live in a world where I am forgiven for this.

I’ve always known that I’m a coward, a pathetic rat that scurries into the shadows of greater men. Each of us has our part in this tale, this world, and mine is to give all I have left in the hope that some good will come of it.

Dying is easy. If I weren’t so afraid of it I might wish that I had passed away years ago- but no such luck. The living suffer alone whilst those they love are lost to them, stumbling blind through the hardships of existence until it's their turn for death to come to them.

He deserves more than this, he deserves someone better than me. I tell myself that I’m only doing what he doesn’t have the strength to anymore, as though that makes it excusable. The truth is, I was nothing, I was empty, and I owe him everything. But I have taken his kindness and twisted it to use to my own ends, and I hate myself for it.

I don’t know much about love, or life to be honest. But tonight, I know that I love him completely.

Tonight, I know that I have sent him to his death.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ~One year previously~  
> POV: Draco Malfoy
> 
> A tall, red haired man in his twenties- probably a Weasley, but it’s been years and I can’t be expected to remember all their names- turns towards me and pulls my father’s mask away from my face, then stops, eyes wide open. They all do, their faces frozen in horror. His mouth opens and closes, as though he’s searching for words but can’t find them.  
> “Draco?” Hermione whispers incredulously after a few moments, squinting slightly.  
> “Yes,” I say slowly, “Were you expecting someone else?” They don’t answer, which isn’t surprising, seeing as they all look terrified.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just some context: At the Battle of Hogwarts, Snape died before he could tell Harry the truth. He would have gone to Voldemort anyway, but what was left of the Order of the Pheonix helped him escape, and he's been on the run ever since. Now Voldemort has control over most of the Wizarding World. There are still some pockets of resistance, still people and countries that fight against him, even though they know it's hopeless.

 

This is me. This is me. This is me. This is me.

 

I don’t seem real.

 

This is me. This is me. This is me.

 

I’m a shadow.

 

This is me. This is me.

And I’m fading.

 

This is me.

There’s nothing left.

Just a shell.

Just emptiness.

 

This is me.

I should be sad.

Emotions fail me.

 

They’ve been doing that a lot recently.

 

This is me.

 

My reflection shows me cold eyes, colourless lips, lifeless limbs.

Perhaps I am dead already.

 

I don’t care.

 

This is me.

 

I’m empty.

 

This is me.

 

THIS IS ME.

_THIS IS ME._

My fist collides with the mirror and the glass shatters. I’m bleeding. The pain comes a few moments later.

****

_Get a grip._

_Control yourself._

 

I’m trying.

 

But I’m scared of losing myself along the way.

 

_You’ve lost yourself already. Just play the part._

****

The mirror is easy enough to fix. I barely think about it. My hand is a bit more difficult, and I struggle to control my wand with my left hand whilst I mend the skin on my right. Some mistakes are easier to hide than others.

The mask hides my face. My father’s mask.

He doesn’t need it anymore.

I can see my reflection through the slits in the eyes. I look like him. My hair is nearly as long as his was, and I’m the same height and build as my father was before he died.

 

I walk through the stone maze with my head held high.

Why shouldn’t I? No one dares to challenge me.

 

I just have to get through today.

 

_And then the one after that._

_And the one after that._

 

I just have to get through today.

 

I don’t realize until I step outside that my fingernails are digging into my palms. When I uncurl my fist my fingers twinge in complaint. There are four dark crescent shapes on my skin that never really fade.

 

The truth is, I don’t really know what I’m doing Here anymore.

That’s capital H Here, as in life, existence, the world.

I once believed that fear was power, and I still think that, I suppose I just don’t care as much as I used to.

Today the sky is grey. I’m tired of winter, tired of never being able to feel my toes, tired of the rain and the cold and the grey sky. I’m counting down the days to summer; it’s the only thing I have left to look forward to.

I’m distantly aware of a woman shouting, screaming, but I’ve learned to block it out. I may end up passing her sentence later on today. If she’s someone important, I only have to watch her die. I’ve done it a thousand times before, and it doesn’t effect me like it used to.

Does that mean that there’s something wrong with me? Probably. There are a lot of things wrong with me, but I don’t care.

I just don’t care.

 

The streets are practically empty. They always are these days. I see the occasional face in a window, but they disappear as I turn to look. Scraps of paper rustle in the wind and gather in heaps in darkened alleys, where children hide in the shadows. Some posters are still pinned to the walls, and my eyes scan over them as I walk passed.

 

**WANTED: HARRY POTTER**

**LAST SEEN: GRENADA, SPAIN, MARCH 2001**

**REWARD: 1000 GALLEONS**

**UNDESIRABLE NO. 1**

**SIGN UP IN THE MINISTRY TO SERVE THE NEW REGIME**

**WANTED: HERMIONE GRANGER**

**LAST SEEN: SYDNEY, AUSTRALIA, JANUARY 2002**

**REWARD: 750 GALLEONS**

**DO NOT BE AFRAID TO SPEAK TO YOUR LOCAL REPRESENTATIVE IF YOU ARE SUPICIOUS OF ANY PROHIBITED BEHAVIOUR**

**DO YOU KNOW THE TRUTH ABOUT BLOOD PURITY? CAN YOU IDENTIFY MUDBLOODS AND MUGGLEBORNS? SERVE THE NEW REGIME.**

 

Images of Muggles trampled underfoot, a pair of round glasses, lying shattered on the ground. Others, showing a nation rising up from the smoke, children smiling and practicing magic freely in the streets, photos of witches and wizards looking for support in order to climb up through the ranks.

There are so many wanted posters.

Rewards for people I once went to school with, people I had classes with, played against on the quidditch pitch. These are people I taunted, people I always strived to be better than, people who were once children, like I was. How can we have chosen such different paths? They are outlaws, there are prices on their heads, and they spend their lives running for fear of dying.

I, on the other hand, am one of the most powerful men in the country.

I was fortunate enough to ally myself with the winning side.

 

_Your loyalty to the Dark Lord is a pretense, and you know it._

****

What else can I do? He’s the only person I have left to be loyal to.

 

_Person? He isn’t human, not anymore. You know that._

****

And what am I supposed to do about it? I can't stop him, no one can.

 

I breathe slowly, deeply. Control is vital in this world. My façade cannot break.  I cannot let this hopelessness show on the outside.

 

Someone has painted their own slogan on the wall and nobody’s cleaned it up yet. A message to all those still resisting that they are not alone.

 

**THE BOY STILL LIVES**

Another, almost hidden by the Death Eater posters:

 

**HARRY POTTER IS NOT ALONE**

There are more, carved into the walls, or sprayed crudely onto the exposed brick:

 

**THE DA FIGHTS ON**

**WE BELIEVE IN YOU POTTER**

The rebels are slowly emerging from the shadows; soon we will have an uprising on our hands. It’s lucky that Potter’s abroad, a sighting in Britain would be enough to inspire them to fight, instead of simply silently spreading their message. We know that there are small communities within this country that still resent our rule, still protest against the Dark Lord’s reign. But their voices are slowly fading, and they’re under control.

If Potter were to return, the peace we have established here would be over.

 

Do I care?

I know that I should.

But I don’t.

 

I just don’t care.

 

So here I am. The Ministry is no longer hidden in Muggle London, but in the center of a Wizard community. Much of what was once inhabited by Muggles is now ours; it’s best that we stay separate from them. We are not the same. It is useless pretending otherwise.

 

Outside the building are three boys and one girl, none of them much older than fourteen, wearing floor length black robes. Children of the Death Eaters. Like me, there is only one career path for them, so the Dark Lord likes to keep them close, instead of sending them away to be educated at what’s left of Hogwarts. The schools here give pupils a very specific skill set, a very specific view of the world. He’s breeding the perfect army, filled with elite soldiers, and it grows stronger with every year that passes.

 

“Malfoy,” The girl sneers, “You’re late.” She’s probably some distant cousin of mine, with the distinctive dark features of the Black family.

I turn to her, slowly, “You should speak to me with more respect.” It irritates me when children view themselves as my equal, and I hope that my tone sounds as threatening to her as I imagined it in my head.

 

Irritation is one of the strongest emotions I feel these days, I think numbly.

 

“Sorry sir,” The children part to let me in.

 

I am one of the most powerful men in the country, now that my father is dead, and those that are smart enough to do so bow their heads as I walk past. Perhaps it is my father’s mask that they recognize, maybe when they look at me they do not see Draco, the boy that couldn’t kill an old man, but Lucius, the Dark Lord’s loyal servant, and the Minister of Magic for three years.

Any respect my family lost in during the Dark Lord’s rise to power was regained during the London battle in ’99. My father and I led the attack against Potter’s army, and we obliterated them. We were so close to catching the Boy Who Lived, so close to being the ones who handed him over to the Dark Lord…

It could have been over that night. But Goyle, stupid Goyle, failed, and he escaped.

His family paid dearly for that mistake.

 

“Draco,” My mother breathes as I walk past, matching her steps to mine. I realize that, for a moment, she must have thought I was my father, before it dawned on her that that is impossible. She looks tired, weary. Grief has aged her, drawn out the shadows under her eyes and bringing prominence to the lines etched into her pale skin.

“Mother,” I say, more a formality than anything else. Normally, I would take her arm, but not today. Not in front of these people, whose respect I am so reliant on.

“I thought you should hear from me, so that you won’t be caught off guard if it’s mentioned later,” My mother begins, speaking quietly and looking around to check that nobody is listening, “There is a rumor that Potter is back in the country.”

“If it’s true, then he’s stupider than I’ve always thought,” I mutter, doubting that this is anymore than harmless gossip. All the same, if he is back, then he’s looking for something. Or he’s already found it, and now thinks he has a way to kill the Dark Lord. It’s pointless; no one can kill him.

 

I make my way towards the courtroom, distantly wondering which poor soul is desperately hoping that they have more than a few minutes left to live. Or maybe she’s just hoping for a quick death. Both prayers are a waste of time. I’ve seen enough people squander their final moments on futile pleas for mercy.

 

I hide myself beneath a façade of false confidence and hope that it’s enough.

 

It’s dark in here. Not from lack of lighting, more due to the Dark Lord’s love of being over dramatic. I suppose that that also explains the flickering torches that line the hallways, their pitiful flames creating vast shadows that lick the walls. Usually I would find him sprawled out on his throne, the Elder Wand held leisurely in his grasp, his cold, ruby eyes on the prisoner in front of him. Today, the throne is empty, nothing but an extravagant black slab of stone.

I take my seat beside it, sinking into my white marble chair. My father used to sit here, as Minister of Magic. And until somebody else steps up to take his place, it is now my seat.

I know the Dark Lord isn’t coming; he’s travelling, and I have only a vague idea where. So instead of waiting, I wave my hand to the Death Eaters stood by the doors, and they bring the prisoner forwards to the chair in the centre of the room, binding her wrists and ankles. The Dementors linger at her side, and I wish that I had a happy memory strong enough to keep them at bay.

I didn’t recognize the girl at first; it’s been years, after all. But when she looks up, spitting blood onto the tiled floor, her brown, bushy hair matted and cut shorter than I remember, her face cut and bruised, her eyes cut into me, and I see only the obnoxious mudblood that I went to school with.

She’s breathing heavily, her eyes dark and angry, but not frightened. It’s almost as though she is in complete control, despite being chained to a chair awaiting a trial than can only end one way.

****

_You hated her once._

****

I never wanted her to die. Not like this.

****

I’m passed a thick file with her name printed on the front, and I flick through half-heartedly. Most of the photos we have of her and the rest of Potter’s lot are blurry and several years out of date, and she is no exception. But there’s a more recent photo, taken just after she was arrested last night. She scowls into the camera, her clothes wrinkled and dirty, her arms folded across her chest. _“At 6pm on 07/03/2003, Hermione Granger was caught attempting to break into Gringotts Bank. She was unsuccessful, and the authorities were alerted immediately.”_

“Miss Granger,” I say quietly, “Last I heard, you were in Peru, with your blood traitor boyfriend.”

“Husband,” She corrects, her voice strong and defiant, “And I’ve never even been to Peru,” Hermione smiles, “You might want to check your sources, Malfoy, they seem to be misinformed.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” I say, leaning forwards, “What were you doing in Gringotts? What were you looking for?” She doesn’t answer, and I question her again, “You must have known that we’d stop you, Granger. You didn’t even try to disguise yourself,” I pause, flicking through the notes in front of me, “Almost like you were trying to get caught.”

“Whatever you say,” Hermione says, “Will your words change my fate? Whatever the reason for my break in, my crimes before then are enough for me to be sentenced to the Dementor’s kiss. Why bother yourself with the technicalities?” She smirks at me, and her comfort with her position unnerves me. If this goes wrong, then the blame will fall on me.

“You’re right; it doesn’t matter now,” I shrug, I will not be made fun of in front of these people, “We’ve got you exactly where we want you.”  
“I could say the same for you,” Grinning, her eyes flick to the masked men standing beside me, who grab my shoulders and pull me to my feet. Some people in the crowd begin protesting, but it soon becomes clear that Potter’s lot outnumber mine. A few spells are cast, some people are shouting, and within moments all the Death Eaters have lost their wands.

They must have been planning this for months.

I elbow one guy in the throat, and he loosens his grip, giving me the opportunity to move my arm and pull my wand from the inside of my cloak. This was a mistake, and someone twists my arm and I scream in pain, forced to drop the wand. It clatters to the floor, rolling away before it’s picked up by a girl not much older than myself. I don’t know her though; she’s just a stranger in a crowd of people that hate me.

I realize a moment before it happens that the man holding my left shoulder is Disapparating, and I have just enough time to sigh to myself before he turns on the spot and we disappear.

 

It’s just a field. Nothing but tall grass trampled under foot and a few trees in the distance. There’s a small crowd of people walking towards us, and as they do so, more are Apperating around us, presumably from the courtroom. Hermione Granger appears next to me and snaps a pair of handcuffs onto my wrists.

 

I wish that I could say this is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. It’s really just another bad day in a pretty terrible life.

 

A tall, red haired man in his twenties- probably a Weasley, but it’s been years and I can’t be expected to remember all their names- turns towards me and pulls my father’s mask away from my face, then stops, eyes wide open. They all do, their faces frozen in horror. His mouth opens and closes, as though he’s searching for words but can’t find them.

“ _Draco_?” Hermione whispers incredulously after a few moments, squinting slightly.

“Yes,” I say slowly, “Were you expecting someone else?” They don’t answer, which isn’t surprising, seeing as they all look terrified.

But Hermione called me by my name in the courtroom, _“Malfoy.”_ So they must have known who I was, unless… Surely they would have known about my father? Surely they wouldn’t make such a careless error? Not when so much was at stake.

“Fuck,” Weasley mutters, “This is not good. Not good at all,” He fidgets restlessly, looking back over his shoulder to look at the approaching group of people.

“Quick, put his mask back on, George,” One girl says, her hand on his arm.

“What good will that do?” Hermione hisses, “Angie, you know that he’ll want to check for himself that we have the right guy.”

“But we _don’t_ have the right guy,” The girl- Angie- whispers, biting her lip nervously, “Shit, what are we going to do?”

“We’re gonna buy ourselves some time,” George explains, pushing the mask back onto my face, “To explain what happened.”

 

The handcuffs are tight around my wrists, biting painfully into my skin whenever I try to move. And my shoulder aches from the brutal twisting of my arm a few minutes ago. But I don’t mind pain. It makes me feel real, and alive.

 

Although, given my current situation, I don’t get the feeling that I’ll be staying that way for very long.

 

The field seems empty, apart from us, and a smaller group walking towards us. Potter has nearly forty in his ‘army,’ but there are probably more of them. There must be a camp or base of sorts nearby, perhaps hidden behind the trees, somewhere they don’t want me to see from the outside.

 

As the group draws nearer to us, I see that the rumors are true; Harry Potter has come home. And he has an army.

He hasn’t changed much since I last saw him, he’s probably slightly thinner, his hair longer, his clothes more faded and worn, but other than that, he looks more or less the same. Of course, it’s difficult to tell. When we last met, it was a busy day, and I caught only glimpses of him amongst the fighting.

 

I’m suddenly so powerless.

 

He’s with three others: another two Weasleys, and a blonde girl. It takes me a couple of seconds to place where I know her from- it’s been so long since I’ve seen these people, and I’ve forgotten most of their names.

Lovegood. We used to call her Looney Lovegood. Except she doesn’t look looney anymore, she looks tough, she looks like a fighter. Everyone here shares the same look, that war hardened gaze and eyes that have seen too much pain.

Hermione starts running and jumps into the arms of one of the Weasleys, then untangles herself and hugs Potter. She speaks to him quietly, barely louder than a whisper and I don’t hear the words.

 

I’m not used to being so outnumbered, surrounded by people that want me dead.

 

I breathe slowly through the holes in the mask as Potter pushes past his friends towards me.

 

Granger touches his arm and he shakes her off.

 

The crowd falls silent, waiting as he reaches out towards my face and pulls away the mask.

 

“I see,” He says coldly, tossing the mask to the floor, “It’s an easy mistake to make, I suppose,” The others remain silent as he speaks, his face just inches from mine, “Only, we needed Lucius Malfoy, the Minister of Magic, the closest of You-Know-Who’s Death Eaters, didn’t we? And what do you bring me?” He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his green eyes, “His son, _Draco Malfoy._ He is of _no use_ to us. How many did you lose today, George?”

“Five haven’t come back yet,” Weasley says, his hand clasped around Angie’s, “They’re either dead or imprisoned. Or maybe someone was holding onto them when they Disapparated, and changed their destination.”

“Five. And for what? We’ve lost five of our own, in a plan that we spent months devising, planning for every eventuality, AND YOU DIDN’T EVEN CHECK THAT YOU HAD THE RIGHT MALFOY,” They avert their eyes, all of them trying not to draw attention to themselves, “Explain how this happened. Someone. Now.”

“Potter,” I smile, and he whirls around, glowering, “My father is dead. Surely you knew that?”

 

It was nothing, just the morning before an interview with some journalist. Except there was a riot outside the Ministry, spells flying everywhere, nobody knew who was fighting on whose side. And my father got caught up in it. Maybe he was trying to give the right image, show that he was just striving for peace, he was good at making people think he was a better man than he actually was. They didn’t find his body until the fighting cleared.

It wasn’t that it was kept secret, but it wasn’t exactly announced either. The death of the Minister would make us look weak, so it wasn’t reported in the newspapers. The funeral was quiet, just close family, no friends.

My father was not particularly well liked.

 

“Dead,” Potter mutters, shaking his head slightly, “Lucius is dead.”

“I hope so,” I say, “Otherwise he’s gonna get a nasty shock when he wakes up in the Malfoy mausoleum.”

He passes his hand over his face wearily, “And you’ve, what, inherited his position, his power?”

“Not exactly,” I pick my words with caution, “He’s been dead for little over a fortnight. I’ve spent most of that time getting his affairs in order, settling any debts he owed to colleagues, ensuring that everyone inherits what they’re supposed to…And, my mother is devastated, any free time I’ve had, I’ve spent consoling her. This has been a very difficult time for all of us…” I try to give them all my best ‘grief stricken’ face, but I gain nothing but an eye roll from Granger.

“Oh, cry me a river, Malfoy,” She sighs, then turns to Potter, “What are we going to do?”

“We’ll figure that out later, Hermione,” He’s still angry, but it’s bottled up, and he’s doing his best to keep it out of sight, “Blindfold him and get him inside.”

“I have a better idea,” Someone growls, lifting their wand and turning towards me, _“Stupefy.”_


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POV: Harry Potter
> 
> There’s just the one cell, and it takes up half of the room, a wall of bars cutting across the stone floor. Draco Malfoy sits against the far wall, his wrists chained to the stones behind him. His cold, grey eyes watch us carefully, and his hair falls limply over his thin, pale, face. And yet, pathetic as he is, he still manages to seem in control.  
> “You’ll want information, I suppose,” He drawls, his eyes fixed on a point just behind my head, as though he’s determined not to look towards me, “I don’t have any,” Malfoy pauses, smirking slightly, “And even if I did, there is nothing on earth that could make me talk.”  
> “You underestimate me,” I say, taking a step towards the bars.

I sit quietly at the head of the wooden table, drumming my fingers on its rough surface as I wait for someone to speak. I know that they’re scared, terrified of the war they’re fighting, and of the consequences if they’re caught. And I know that they’re scared of me as well; I’ve been losing my temper too much lately, and I don’t need Hermione’s critical glare to remind me of that. It’s just… I’m finding it difficult to hold on to who I am, and every day I can feel parts of myself slipping away, becoming more like _him._

I’m trying to hold on, to stay me- but it’s getting more and more challenging with every day that passes.

“Even if he doesn’t know as much as his father, Draco will know _something,”_ Hermione says, almost pleading with me to understand. They’ve all been saying the same thing over and over again, in different ways but with the same meaning. They’re trying to convince me that this isn’t as bad as it could be, that at least we have _someone_ close to Voldemort.

“Hermione,” I whisper, “How the hell did you not know that Lucius is dead? Surely that was a fairly vital part of the plan?”

“I was in prison! How was I supposed to know, let alone do anything about it?”

“I don’t care! Someone should have known,” I clench my fists and try to force myself to be calm, “This is a whole new level of stupidity.”

“Harry- if you wanted to help then you should have been here, instead of gallivanting around America!”

“Gallivanting?” I stand up, and everyone in the room visibly winces, “In case you hadn’t noticed, Hermione, I was trying to form an alliance with what’s left of the American Ministry, doing everything I can to fight _you-know-who!_ And you may have realized that I am still Undesirable Number One in this country- the price on my head is rising by a hundred Galleons every month! Staying here only means that I have to sit around waiting for _something_ to happen, so I might as well do what I can abroad. And when I ask something to be done, when I make plans that will take place when I come back, I sort of, you know, EXPECT THEM TO ACTUALLY WORK OUT AS INTENDED!”

 

_Harry Potter._

No, please, not now.

_I didn’t know you were back in Britain, you should have told me. Shame you were trying so hard to stop me seeing. Maybe, if you just let your walls crumble a little more… No matter. I’ll find my own way in, you’ll see._

“Look,” I say, my voice hoarse and trembling, “I’ll go talk to him. See what he knows. No- Ron, I’ll go on my own. I can look after myself.”

“Yeah, Harry, that’s not going to happen. I need to make sure you don’t say anything stupid,” Ron says a little too loudly, trying to diffuse the tension I too often fill the room with. I avoid the eyes of everyone watching me as I leave and make my way through the cold corridors, keeping my eyes on the ground. I’ve been away for months, nearly a year, and things have changed. Our army has grown, with more and more people daring to risk supporting us, we have allies in the Ministries still free from Voldemort’s power, and yet hope is dying with every day that passes. The Death Eaters won the war long ago, and this is nothing but a feeble attempt at a rebellion. Their defenses are too strong for us to successfully continue our search for horcruxes, although we’re doing everything we can.

I just feel like we’re fighting because it’s all we know how to do.

“So what did the American Minister say? Will he help us?” Ron asks, eagerly prying for information.

“Landers will help us-”

“Brilliant!”

“-Once we destroy You-Know-Who,” Saying his name is still dangerous, he was smart enough to continue tracking those that dared say it out loud, “He’s more than willing to help take out the Death Eaters, but won’t risk losing more aurors in a fight against _‘the Dark Lord.’_ Landers says it’s a fight they can’t win.”

“So he expects you to fight this alone?”

“Alone?” I raise my eyebrows, “I wouldn’t say that I’m completely alone.”  
“Mate, we both know that when it comes to You-Know-Who, it’s between you and him. You’re the only one that can kill him.”

“Why d’you think I have trouble sleeping at night?” Well, it’s not just the crippling fear of the inevitable ‘final battle’ that keeps me wide awake, my eyes open and unblinking, staring up at whatever roof lies over my head. The nightmares are worse than ever. As Voldemort grows stronger, I grow weaker, and fighting him is exhausting me. I don’t tell Ron that. He’d just tell Hermione, and then I’d never hear the end of it.

We come to a door, which I unlock to reveal a short flight of stairs. Before now, there hasn’t been much cause to use the small dungeon, and the single cell has only been occupied a handful of times in the two years that we’ve been here. Now, reaching the base of the stairs, I’m glad I listened when Ron told me we might need this place someday.

I nod to Alexander, an American wizard that I managed to befriend when I was over there. He doesn’t talk much, and when he does it’s always the same: that he’s going to tear Voldemort apart with his bare hands for what he’s done. It’s a nice idea, but I doubt that it would be particularly effective. I spoke to a few of his friends, and pieced together his story. He had a Squib sister, Maria. She moved to Britain when she was ten to stay with her Grandparents, because Alexander’s parents had high positions in the Ministry and wanted her out of the way. She grew up fairly happily, came home during the summer and over Christmas, and had a fairly successful Muggle education in Britain, even went on the study History at Edinburgh, where she met her husband. Two years after they married, Voldemort took over the Ministry of Magic, and his followers started killing Muggle families. Nobody knows whether they knew who Maria was, but they killed her and her husband, and their daughter, nonetheless.

I can understand his desire for revenge, and it’s not a surprise that he was so eager to stand guard down here.

There’s just the one cell, and it takes up half of the room, a wall of bars cutting across the stone floor.  Draco Malfoy sits against the far wall, his wrists chained to the stones behind him. His cold, grey eyes watch us carefully, and his hair falls limply over his thin, pale, face. And yet, pathetic as he is, he still manages to seem in control.

“You’ll want information, I suppose,” He drawls, his eyes fixed on a point just behind my head, as though he’s determined not to look towards me, “I don’t have any,” Malfoy pauses, smirking slightly, “And even if I did, there is nothing on earth that could make me talk.”

“You underestimate me,” I say, taking a step towards the bars.

“I don’t think so,” Malfoy gives the chains around his wrists an experimental tug, wincing slightly when they instinctively tighten- a useful spell that Hermione mastered years ago.

“We just want some information about You-Know-Who. His whereabouts, his weaknesses, that sort of thing,” I feel the wall in my mind tremble slightly, and fight to keep my sudden dizziness at bay. When I speak again, I hope that no one else can hear the feebleness in my voice, “Just tell us what you know and we’ll…”

“What?” Malfoy raises his eyebrows, “You’ll let me go? That would be awfully generous of you, Potter. Perhaps you were going to say that you’d kill me quickly, but that’s not really in your nature either, is it?”

“You have no idea what’s in my nature,” Only after I say it do I realize how pathetic my threat sounds when I’m on the verge of passing out. My head is throbbing, as though there’s something trying to break out of my skull, and it’s only by sheer willpower that I’m still standing. Amusement passes through Malfoy’s eyes, a mocking smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“You’re not going to faint, are you Potter?” He sniggers, but I ignore him. I spent six years at school with him, I’m sort of used to it. Besides, I have more important problems to worry about.

“Do you really have the strength for this?” Malfoy continues, his face now taking on an expression of mock concern, “Would it not be easier to let Weasel over there take over?” I raise my eyebrows at Alexander, and he knows me well enough by now to know what I mean. I’m not sure that I have the strength- or temperament- right now to perform the Cruciatus Curse, but Alexander can.

Malfoy’s screams last for a few moments, but I’m barely aware of it. My mind is swimming, my vision blurry, and I strain to focus past the headache.

And it’s not that I like this, no matter how much I once hated Malfoy. It’s just that the past few years have taught me that sometimes I have to make decisions I wouldn’t normally make.

The dizziness passes after a couple more seconds, and the headache fades enough for me to think properly.

“In case you hadn’t noticed, you are a prisoner here. You have no wand. You’re defenceless,” I say quietly, and I know he can hear me, “Don’t waste my time with pretending you have the upper hand.”

Malfoy’s breathing heavily, but his words are still filled with venom when he speaks, “If you think that I have any reason to be afraid of you, Potter, then you are mistaken. You don’t scare me, and neither does your American friend,” He pauses, leaning back against the wall, his eyes closed, “As far as I’m concerned, there are very few ways this can finish. Either, I talk to you, and you kill me once I’m no longer useful. Or I don’t talk, and you kill me when you realize there’s nothing you can do to force me to say anything. Or perhaps, by some miracle, I escape, and the Dark Lord kills me for being stupid enough to be _kidnapped,_ ” His eyes flash open, meeting my gaze for the first time since we entered the room, “Believe me Potter, the Dark Lord scares me far more than you ever will.”

“I’ll come back tomorrow,” I tell him, turning to leave, “Try and think of something to say worth those we lost in capturing you. In the mean time, I’ll leave you in the care of Alexander.”

 

Of all the people I’d once hoped to be, this is no where near what I had in mind. I don’t like this. I hate it.

Yet I can’t help inheriting more of Voldemort’s traits that I could ever have anticipated. This has gone further than even Dumbledore ever thought it would.

Or perhaps he’d guessed what would happen if I failed. It wouldn’t be the only thing he never told me.

 

How we ended up with a communal dining room, I’ll never know. Maybe it was because so many of us missed the comfort of Hogwarts, or that it always feels better to be surrounded by friends when you feel like you’re falling apart on the inside.

Tonight, I just wish I was alone- but Hermione said people would want to see me here, apparently my continued survival gives them hope. Fortunately, I drew the line at making a speech.

It just feels so strange. I haven’t seen Malfoy in years, not since the London battle in ’99. But that was four years ago. I had no reason to see him; it wasn’t like I was going to drop in for afternoon tea or something. I hate the guy. He’s a scumbag. But I still remember what he looked like the first time I met him in Madam Malkin's, just a child. I mean, he was still a pretentious bastard, but he had been essentially innocent. I can’t say the same for him now- Merlin knows how much blood he has on his hands.

Then again, who am I to judge? I’ve made my fair share of mistakes, decisions I wish I could go back and change.

 

I shouldn’t have let them get me out of Hogwarts that night.

Even though I know they made their decision for the right reasons, and that in the long run it’s probably ended up better than it would have otherwise, it wasn’t their decision to make.

And I’m damned for it anyway. The blood of those that didn’t get away is on my hands, and I can’t forget it no matter how hard I try.

 

“You alright mate?” Ron asks as he slides onto the bench next to me. I hope that my solemn glare is enough to answer his question. His eyes go my left hand, and the finger that no longer wears a ring, “Did you…?”  
“No,” I tug on the chain around my neck and pull it out from under my shirt, showing him the silver ring that hangs there, “I was sick of people asking.”

He nods grimly, “And how’s James?”

“Fine. Or so I hear. It’s difficult, you know, trying to find out without drawing too much attention…” I sigh, taking a long gulp from the glass of firewhisky in front of me, “So how’ve you been?”

“Fine,” He says too quickly, “As well as can be expected, I suppose. Life’s gotten even worse here whilst you were away; it’s practically impossible to get our people working undercover now. I think it does mum and dad good to be over in Spain, away from all this.”

“The Spanish Ministry is weak, You-Know-Who will target it soon. They need to get out Europe. If he finds out about James, none of them will be safe.”

“I know. I’ve told them, but mum doesn’t want to be too far away. Dad says he’d rather be back in Britain, but I know he sort of likes life over there, in a strange way- posing as a Muggle family and all that,” He catches Hermione’s eye when she enters the hall and she comes to sit next to us. She’s lost weight over the past few months, but that’s not particularly surprising given the stress of the life we lead.

“Did you get very far with Malfoy?” She asks quietly, taking a seat the other side of Ron.

“No, the lousy git,” Ron mutters, “But we will. He’s a hell of a lot more of a coward than he pretends to be.”

“Harry, I’m sorry, I-”

“It’s not your fault,” I say wearily, “He’s better than nothing.”

She gives a hesitant smile, and opens her mouth to say something else, but I give a hasty excuse and hurry out of the hall.

 

I have a small room to myself, which is something, seeing as the private rooms here are limited as more and more people escape the cities to join us. I stumble inside and slam the door behind me, collapsing onto the bed and closing my eyes, although I know it’ll be hours until I fall asleep. And even then I’ll be plagued by nightmares until I give up just before dawn and find something better to do with my time.

Images flash behind my eyes, some of them my own memories, some of them Voldemort’s that seep through the barrier when I’m too tired to stop them- although some of them come so fast I can barely tell them apart.

_The Gryffindor common room, a fire roaring, the muffled sounds of shouting and laughter._

_Christmas at Grimmauld Place._

_Leaving Hogwarts burning behind us as I slip in and out of consciousness._

Ginny.

 

Those memories are mine, I know that, and I don’t do anything to hold them back.

 

But others come in unwelcome. Mangled bodies, people screaming, the dark corridors of the new Ministry. The sound of a woman begging for her life.

 

Those are the memories he sends me in case I’ve forgotten about him.

 

I can’t help but think of Malfoy, marveling at the different paths we’ve taken. And, I suppose, neither of us were ever going to end up anywhere else.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POV: Draco Malfoy
> 
> “Your soldiers fight in your name, die in your name,” I tell him, remembering the graffiti in London, “And you’re a fool for believing otherwise.”  
> He sighs, “I just wish that they would stop thinking I’m a hero. I’m not.”  
> “I know,” I look away, embarrassed by the fragility in his expression, “The way I see it, they’re just looking for something to believe in. Something to give them hope. Because a lot of them don’t have much cause for hope anymore.”

The American wizard hates me, that much is clear.

He’s also had lots of practice at this, which must be why Potter hired him.

 

Blood drips into my eyes from a gash on my forehead and I can hardly see. My whole body is shaking, trembling, and my clothes are damp with sweat and blood. I wish I knew how much time had passed, but there are no windows down here, no way to see whether it’s night or day.

And it’s difficult to find distractions from the pain. Torture, unsurprisingly, is extremely unpleasant.

I try to think of my mother. She’ll know by now that I’m gone, _kidnapped._ How far will she go to get me back? That’s presuming she cares. She’s been distant since my father’s death, as though she doesn’t really know what she’s doing anymore. I’m all too familiar with that feeling.

 

My thoughts are interrupted by my own screaming, which consumes me for a few minutes-or is it hours? I can’t tell the difference anymore.

 

Potter’s changed, and I don’t know whether anyone else has noticed. I’ve never claimed to know him particularly well, but even I can see that he’s colder than he once was, and weaker too. There were times when he thought he could save the world, and that it was his… _duty_ to do so. Now he just looks tired of it all, and I think he would give up if he had the chance.

 

The silence when my screaming stops is unsettling.

It’s possible to torture someone into madness- it’s been done before. Thankfully that would be somewhat counterproductive in this situation, so I’m fairly confident Potter won’t let me lose my mind.

However, that does mean that I have no way to predict a peaceful end to this. Except death. Death could be fairly peaceful.

Although, if there’s any sort of afterlife, I can’t imagine that I’d go anywhere good, not after everything I’ve done. Even if I did end up in _paradise_ it would only mean that I’d be deprived of the quiet peace I hope that death would grant me.

 

I try to breathe steadily, but a pathetic sob chokes me and I whimper.

 

I’m not a hero, and I’ve never pretended to be. My loyalty comes from fear, not devotion. I have no reason to be noble here, to let them break me whilst I keep my mouth shut and tell them nothing. I stopped valuing my life years ago, but that doesn’t mean that I _want_ to die. And I certainly don’t want to live the rest of my pitiful days suffering through this, even if I deserve it.

 

Footsteps echo on the stairs, and I can hear Weasley talking. It must be morning, which means it’s been nearly a day since they took me. Maybe it’s been longer- I have no way of knowing.

“You can go, Alexander,” Potter says as he enters the room, “Have something to eat, get a few hours of sleep.”

“I’m not tired. I can stay, sir-”

“I don’t need you here,” Potter waves his hand dismissively and the American leaves, looking slightly disheartened. He has him trained well- I’ll give him that.

“Would you not rather have your dog stay here?” I ask, my voice hoarse and quiet, “Just in case I hurt your feelings again?”

Potter ignores me, “I’m just hoping that you’re willing to cooperate, and that I won’t have to ask Alexander for any more favors in… persuading you.”

“You think you’ve broken me after one night here?”

“Yes.”

I raise my eyebrows, and even in the gloom I can see Potter smirking, “Maybe we can come to an arrangement,” I suggest.

“You’re really not in a position to bargain, Malfoy,” Weasley scorns, speaking to me for the first time since I’ve been in this cell.

“Neither are you,” I reply, “Security’s going to be tighter than ever after what happened yesterday, so you won’t have another chance to get someone with as much status and power as me anytime soon. I’m all you’ve got.”

“Fine,” Potter says, he takes a step forwards and stumbles, his hand holding onto the uneven stone wall, “What are your terms?”

“I’ll answer your questions if you answer mine. Satisfy my curiosity a little, whilst I tell you as much as I can so that you stop torturing me,” I consider smirking at them, but I don’t have the energy, “Then we’ll all walk away happy.”

“What makes you think you’ll be walking away?” Potter mutters, and it would be slightly threatening if he weren’t leaning against the wall as though it’s the only thing keeping him on his feet. I can’t help but wonder what’s wrong with him, it’s pathetic, it really is. Not to mention the fact that he’s about as menacing as a potato right now.

“What makes you think that the Ministry won’t do anything to get me back?” This time I force a halfhearted smile, “They have four of your friends after all. If I die, so do they.”

I can see them considering my words, and they know that I’m right, as much as it pains them to admit it. They always did think they were better than me. I expect it gives the two of them great satisfaction to see me here, chained to the wall, defenseless, my muscles still trembling.

“If you think we’re going to tell you anything, then forget it,” Weasley hisses.

“Then you’ll get nothing from me, and this whole thing will be a waste of time.”

“He’s right,” Potter takes a wary step forwards so that he’s standing just inches from the bars of the cell, “We’re more desperate than he is.”

“Harry,” Weasley mutters, and I don’t let them know that I can hear him, “You know those times when I advise you against doing something, and you do it anyway? This is one of those times. Malfoy is a lying piece of shit, what makes you think you can trust him?”

“I don’t trust him; I’m not _that_ stupid,” Potter glances at me, “But we’re running out of options, and we need all the information we can get.”

“Good,” I say, “You’re not as moronic as you look. Now, before we start,” I rattle the chains around my wrists, “Take these off.”

“You’re joking.”

“Tell me, Weasley, what exactly do you expect me to do? There are two of you, only one of me. And you’re both armed, whereas I am not. I only ask because I’m staring to lose all sensation in my fingers.” Even though I know I can’t fight them, I dislike being chained up. Although it is somewhat amusing that they consider me to be enough of a threat to bother at all.

Potter unlocks the cell door with a key from his pocket and crosses the short distance to where I sit, kneeling beside me. I’m not used to people being this close to me, and I’m uncomfortable with being able to feel the warmth of his body and hear his breathing. There are pale scars on his face and neck that I didn’t see until now, and his dark, messy hair almost completely obscures the lightning shaped scar on his forehead. He takes another small key and unlocks the handcuffs, deliberately avoiding touching my skin or looking me in the eye. When my arms are free, he almost jumps backs, determined to get as far away from me as possible. I rub my raw wrists and numb hands and nod my thanks to Potter. Curiously, he has not stepped outside the cell, and instead leans against the bars, facing me, his arms folded.

I do find it slightly humorous that he appears to be wearing the same round spectacles that he always has. Maybe shopping for new glasses isn’t high on the Chosen One’s list of priorities.

“What do you want to know?” He asks, and I smile in response. Honestly, I didn’t think he’d agree to this so easily, and I have to think carefully. If I ask something to big to start with then they’ll leave and send _Alexander_ back in, which is something that I have no intention of allowing to happen.

“You had a girlfriend, didn’t you?” I say carefully, and he flinches, “Weasley’s little sister. We haven’t heard anything about her in over a year, and I don’t see her around… Not that I actually remember what she looks like, but I’m curious. Where is she?”

“ _That’s_ your question?” He raises his eyebrows, and even though I can tell it’s an unwelcome topic, he looks slightly amused.

“Yes. Like I said, I’m curious.”

“She was killed,” Potter says, his voice emotionless, “Defending the German Ministry last year.”

Now that _is_ surprising, “We didn’t know about that.”

“Of course you didn’t. We took her body with us,” Weasley says quietly, “I couldn’t leave her there.”

 

I didn’t know the girl- only spoke to her on a handful of occasions. And she was a Weasley, so I never really thought much of her. Even so, I’m reminded once again that we were all children once, and our conflicts and problems were rarely bigger than the world we knew within school. She’s not the only one to have died. Everyone who stands with Potter has signed a death sentence, whether they know it or not.

 

“I’m sorry,” I say, and Weasley glowers.

“Why should you care?”

“I’m not a monster. Whatever’s happened in the past, I never wanted your sister to _die_.” This conversation would be slightly less uncomfortable if I remembered her name. I want to say Jenny, or Gabby… Maybe Jessie? How should I know? Like I said, I barely spoke to the girl. “Well, it seems like I’ve missed out on all the gossip. Weasley’s married the mudblood, _your_ girlfriend’s dead… Why do I miss out on all the exciting things?”

Potter’s eyes meet mine, and his gaze is so cold and full of loathing that I look away after a moment, “I believe it’s my turn to get answers,” He picks his way through his words, as though unsure of what to say, or on the verge of losing control and barely managing to contain his anger, “How did your father die?”

I know that he doesn’t care, just like I couldn’t care less what happened to his girlfriend. But this is a game, and he understood the rules the moment I asked my question, leaving his clueless friend frustrated and confused.

“It was the morning after the most recent educational reforms- a few unruly citizens started a riot outside the Ministry. It all got out of control. My father and a few others tried to control it, and he was killed. We kept it quiet, the death of the Minister would have made us look weak,” I pause, trying to understand the expression on Potter’s face. It is not quite pity, and it’s definitely not sympathy. But he is the sort of person that feels pain and loss deeply, and he has certainly lived through enough of it. Whereas I feel nothing at all. So maybe that is it, I wonder, that he doesn’t know what it feels like to be so nonchalant about the death of a family member, someone that I should have loved but never knew how to. “So how many soldiers do you have here?”

“They aren’t soldiers,” Potter says defensively, giving up on the argument when I raise my eyebrows, “Today? About fifty. It changes from day to day, what with people coming and going from where they’re stationed. Hermione’s the one that keeps track of that sort of thing. I don’t have the patience for it.” I narrow my eyes, and he presses his lips together when he realizes that he has said more than necessary. He then hastily asks his own question, “Why were you overseeing the trial yesterday?” Was it only yesterday? It feels like an age has passed since then.

“Because they’re still trying to keep up the illusion that my father is alive. Because I could use the experience if I’m to ‘reach my potential’ as my mother put it. And because the Malfoy family are respected, even feared in some circles these days, so it makes sense to keep up the image that we are powerful, the fate of undesirables so often lying in our hands,” I barely even pause before continuing, “Why are you back in Britain?”

This time he hesitates, and turns to looks at Weasley, who throws him a warning glance, and his answer is tantalizingly vague, “There were new leads on a weapon that might be able to kill You Know Who. We believed your father would know the last piece of the puzzle, and that if we captured him we’d be taking a huge step closer to killing You Know Who. Do you know where he is?”

He made a mistake in asking a close question. But just saying ‘no’ would allow them to find the shortest way of answering me, so I just ignore his incompetence, “He didn’t tell me. Unfortunately for you, I think my father knew. He rarely spoke to me about private Ministry business, so I don’t know for certain where the Dark Lord is. I know that he’s travelling- at a guess I’d say he’s trying to find a way to find and kill you, Potter. There are rumors of weapons he might be looking for, and where he might be able to find them. Most people seem to think he’s in Asia. That’s all I know,” I sigh, and a part of me wishes I could say more, although I’m not entirely sure why. Perhaps it is because I am sick of being so useless, and that it’s almost a relief to finally be a part of something, being able to change the paths we tread, even if only a little. And the more I talk, the more I can’t help the feeling that I’ve forgotten something important, that I know more than I can remember. I think Potter can see it, the way his brow furrows and he tilts his head slightly, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Where’s the rest of your army?” I ask carefully, “This can’t be everything. I’m certain that you have other bases, probably scattered across the world. Where?”

Again, when Potter speaks he appears to be choosing his words with caution, “We have one other base in Britain. Four scattered across Europe and one in Asia. This one’s the biggest though. Most of the others only have a dozen or so people there at once,” He pauses, sharing an indecipherable look with Weasley, who nods slowly, “What do you know about Horcruxes, Malfoy?”

 

I consider saying nothing, I really do. But I’d be lying and they’d know it.

 

“Not much,” Weasley rolls his eyes, and I ignore him, “I know that the Dark Lord has several, and that’s why he didn’t die that night he tried to kill you, and why it’s pointless to attempt to take him down. I know that you’ve been hunting them for over five years, and have destroyed some of them. He’s created more since then, I think. Well, at least one more. And he’s tightened the security and protections and masking spells, so it’s virtually impossible to find them. If you know what you’re looking for, there are ways to track down the locations. Granger could probably do it,” I pause, because I know a name, and I know that it could be the difference between success and failure. They’ll get it from me anyway, so I might as well tell them now and save myself from too much discomfort, “There’s a wizard called Roger Carlson. I think he helped the Dark Lord to hide his horcruxes. He’s not really a Death Eater, more like a… freelance. A specialist. Although I have no clue how to find him. Even if you _did_ find him, and the location of the Horcruxes, you’d probably be killed by one of the horrible creatures and curses that guard the places. And I know that destroying Horcruxes is a tricky business.”

“Is that all?”

“One question at a time, Weasley,” I remind him quietly, then sigh, “Yes, that’s all I know. I understand that it must be frustrating that I can’t be of more use to you. After all, how many did you lose trying to get me? Five? Friends, I imagine. Good people. And I know that the Ministry treats their guests with far less courtesy than you do, surprising as that may be. Do they still love you, Potter? Will they stay loyal to you when the skin is peeled from their faces-”

Weasley lunges forwards, seething, and Potter catches his arm, shaking his head. I laugh at the look on the moron’s face, even though he looks like he’d kill me if he could just get his hands around my throat. I’ve always found it interesting that when people are truly angry, they never go for their wands. I suppose beating someone bloody with your own hands is somewhat more satisfying.

“Go upstairs Ron,” Potter hisses, practically pushing his friend away, “If you can’t keep your emotions to yourself then you might as well leave.” Weasley clenches his jaw and storms off, reminding me of a toddler on the verge of a temper tantrum.

“These people follow my cause, not me,” Potter says quietly once his friend has left, his gaze meeting and holding mine, “The risks and decisions they make are their own. But don’t think that it makes it any easier for me when I keep losing friends to this fight and there’s nothing I can do to stop it, except somehow finding a way to kill You Know Who.”

“Your soldiers fight in your name, die in your name,” I tell him, remembering the graffiti in London **_Harry Potter is not alone_** , “And you’re a fool for believing otherwise.”

He sighs, “I just wish that they would stop thinking I’m a hero. I’m not.”

“I know,” I look away, embarrassed by the fragility in his expression, “The way I see it, they’re just looking for _something_ to believe in. Something to give them hope. Because a lot of them don’t have much cause for hope anymore.”

“Is that surprising? The latest educational decree states that pupils at Hogwarts should be able to trace their magical heritage back three generations. Anyone else who wants their kids to get in has to go through exhaustive checks… It’s insane.”

“I know all that, Potter, I was there when the law was passed.”

“Do you agree with it?”

I look at him, trying to understand what’s going on here. Is this some way of getting information? Because it seems to me that this is some sort of heart to heart, which doesn’t make any sense, seeing as he’s hated me for more than ten years. That is also ridiculous. I made it very clear to him that we could have been friends, and he chose _Weasley_ and a mudblood over me. That was insulting. I mean, I moved on, I’m over it. But it was a low moment nonetheless.

“You know how I feel about blood purity. And there are precautions we need to take to keep your supporters and their families out of Hogwarts, away from other children that can be easily influenced by the opinions of others. The system is barely holding together, and we need to do everything in our power to-”

“The reason the system is barely holding together is that you keep coming up with these crazy laws, the purpose of which seems to be to make everyone’s lives hell.”

“I don’t understand what you want me to do,” I respond, still a little confused, “I don’t have a lot of influence, despite my father’s position. And I _like_ the way things are.”

“You’re lying,” Potter mutters, “You stopped caring about this years ago. Otherwise you wouldn’t have given up what you know so easily.”

“I have a strong sense of my own well being.”

“You’re a coward,” He spits, any vulnerability gone from his voice, “I’m surprised you have the stomach for all the brutality your kind gets up to. When I knew you, you flinched and shied away, repulsed by death and murder, no matter what you preached. Did you lose whatever ounce of morality you had?”

“You think you know everything there is to know about me, Potter. I’ve always despised that about you. Don’t pretend that you have the first clue about what my life is like, because you don’t. All you have is a distorted memory of the boy I was five years ago. We’ve all changed since then,” I say pointedly, thinking of the coldness in his voice and eyes, where once there was nothing but childish arrogance.

“Only by necessity,” Potter says, and walks over to wear I’m sat, kneeling beside me. I let him force my hands back into the handcuffs, sighing when I find myself chained up again.

“I presume that these can’t be opened by magic?”

“No,” He answers, standing up, “There’s a chance that, if you lose control, you could accidentally unlock them,” Potter shrugs, “It’s happened before.”

“One key? Kept on you at all times?”  
“Someone has another key. In case this one’s destroyed- We wouldn’t want you to be trapped here forever,” He smiles, and I realize again how pleased he must feel to have finally gotten the better of me.

“I’ll have someone bring you some food and water,” Potter says and he locks the cell door behind him and leaves me alone with my thoughts.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POV Harry Potter
> 
> Then there’s Malfoy, chained up downstairs, with his cold grey eyes and his stupid smirk, and the fact that I am absolutely certain he knows more than he’s saying, and I have no idea how to get him to talk to me. He’s wrapped himself up in so many layers of nonchalance and calm that it’s practically impossible to know what he’s thinking. There was certainly a hesitancy to his words, but I know that mine had the same careful tone, so that tells me very little.  
> Malfoy has always been far more complicated than I gave him credit for. He was all words and false claims back at school, the pretense that he was far more important and capable than anyone else, but when it came to actually doing something, he was completely ordinary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so this chapter took ages. Because I'm lazy and I'm kind of struggling to get into Harry's head… I'm also aware that it's shorter than the other chapters. Hopefully the next one will be longer and take less time.

“What the hell was that?” Ron grabs my arm and I push him away, ignoring his glare.

“What?” I raise my eyebrows and start making my way down the corridors to the central chamber, Ron following me.  
“That!”

“Thanks, that’s really specific.”

Ron glowers at me, and when he speaks I can hear the irritation in his voice, “You know that’s not how interrogations work, right?”

“We’re desperate, Ron. We didn’t have much of a choice,” I explain “And we got a name: Roger Carlson. That counts for something, right?”

“We could have gotten more if you weren’t so determined to catch up with Malfoy.”

“Do you not understand how this works?” I stop walking and turn to look at him, “You know Malfoy, he’s a coward, and he’ll do anything to save his own skin. So he was willing to talk without too much persuasion. But he also knows that You Know Who won’t appreciate him giving away information, so if he can offer some in return he might be able to escape most of his master’s wrath. We need information fast because Narcissa is going to do whatever she can to get her son back, so we have a few days at most before we either have to turn him in or suffer the consequences,” I close my eyes and breathe out slowly, “For now, we’re playing his game, with his rules, because we have no other choice,” Shrugging, I continue, “I know what I’m doing, just do as I say and it’ll be fine.”  
“Right,” Ron mutters, “Because I’m Harry Potter’s stupid friend, and I do what I’m told because I’m too thick to think for myself.”  
“When did I say that?” I shout as a turns his back and walks away, “That’s not what I said. I only meant-”

“I know what you meant, Harry,”  He looks back at me, glowering, “You think your opinion is the only one that matters, that you can leave for a year and still call all the shots when you get back. For all you know, you could have just given Malfoy the last piece in his puzzle, vital information that will lead to our destruction. This was _your_ plan, to capture someone close to You Know Who and get as much information as possible, not to exchange gossip. I don’t care whether or not you want to play some stupid _game_ with Malfoy, this is a war, people have died to get us this far. And, let’s be honest, most of them die when you go and make these fucking stupid decisions because you think you know what you’re doing,” Of course, this always comes back to that night just over a year ago, when everything turned to shit. He’s been hiding it pretty well, but now I can see it clearly in his eyes, that he blames me for what happened, which is understandable. _I_ blame me. But I’d always thought he understood that I did everything I could to protect Ginny- I never imagined that he was barely containing his anger for the consequences of my mistakes. He breathes heavily, and mutters, “Don’t mess up again,” before storming off.

I’d forgotten what it was like not working alone, having to consider what other people thought. And although Ron’s my best friend- my brother- I can barely hold back my frustration at the fact that he just _doesn’t understand._ What did he think would happen? Did he imagine that Malfoy would give us everything we needed to know, and that Voldemort would be dead by the end of the week? Well, he’s never been very good at being patient, and we’ve had the same conversation countless times over the past few years as his anger increases, and our chances of defeating Voldemort slowly crumble. And I’m doing _everything_ I can. It’s just not enough these days.

All I’m trying to do- all I’ve ever tried to do- is protect the people I love, my friends, my family. Granted, I’m not very good at it, as Ron so eloquently pointed out. People keep dying because of me, because I made a mistake or I couldn’t save them and I’m so sick and tired of it. This past year I’ve done my best to keep to myself, only making friends and alliances where necessary. It hasn’t been easy though. My grip on reality is slipping away more and more with every day that passes, and I can _feel_ him in my head, changing me, corrupting me, putting his words in my mouth.

And now I’m back here, and for the first time in years it feels like I’m on the right path, like an end to this could still be possible. Despite everything, the world could still go back to the way it used to be, and defeating him might just be possible. After all, I have my friends- even if Ron is still angry about everything- and that’s all we’ve ever needed.

But my wedding ring hangs heavily around my neck, and there’s a photo of the two of us with James in my pocket that brings me too much pain.

Then there’s Malfoy, chained up downstairs, with his cold grey eyes and his stupid smirk, and the fact that I _am absolutely certain_ he knows more than he’s saying, and I have no idea how to get him to talk to me. He’s wrapped himself up in so many layers of nonchalance and calm that it’s practically impossible to know what he’s thinking. There was certainly a hesitancy to his words, but I know that mine had the same careful tone, so that tells me very little.

Malfoy has always been far more complicated than I gave him credit for. He was all words and false claims back at school, the pretense that he was far more important and capable than anyone else, but when it came to actually doing something, he was completely ordinary.

That being said, I don’t think I would have been able to repair that Vanishing Cabinet. And he probably was one of the smartest kids in our year, as difficult as that is to admit. Of course, he was also immensely obnoxious and dislikable, the sort of person that thought he was better than everyone- and not just because of his blood status, though I imagine that was probably one of the main reasons for it- and that therefore nobody else really mattered, and their lives or untimely misfortunes and deaths were of little importance, and usually fairly amusing.

He was a piece of shit.

I don’t know what he’s like now though, he could be anyone. After all, my dad was a dick at school, and he turned out alright- he was a hero. I wish I knew what sort of person Malfoy grew up to be. I’m fairly certain that he’s as cowardly as ever, but where do his loyalties lie? Does he still cling to the possibility of power? I know that the Malfoys are far more respected than they were during Voldemort’s initial rise to power, but how much does he trust them? They’re probably little more than puppets, just ensuring that the right things are said and done so that the world is run to his design. Is that what Malfoy expected, I wonder, when he longed to be Voldemort’s right hand man? Is there anything in his life other than being a Death Eater? The Slytherin girls used to fawn over him, and I can’t see that having changed much, so surely he must have a girlfriend, or _something?_

 _Stop it,_ I curse myself, _this is irrelevant._ But there’s always been something so intriguing about Malfoy, he’s like a magnet, and it’s all too easy to be drawn towards him, no matter how much I dislike him. And that’s exactly what always happens. I’d forgotten about it until now, the way I always felt like I had been pulled into his orbit, my gaze finding his face before I even realized I was looking for him.

That’s the way with people you hate, I suppose. You have to know why you hate them, you have to find every single bit of evidence to incriminate them, to prove to everyone else what an awful person they are. Mostly though, I just want to understand him, because he’s always been somewhat of a mystery.

 

I’ve barely been aware of my movements as I sorted through my thoughts, only dragged out of my reflections when I crash into George, “Alright Harry?” He grins, “You look a little distracted. Kind of pale. You’ve got this vacant look in your eyes.”

“I’m fine,” I shrug, reluctantly meeting his steady gaze, “It’s just been a long day.”

“Yeah,” George says, “We seem to get a lot of those, don’t we?” I smile in agreement, and search his face for any of the blame hidden behind Ron’s eyes. There is none, which is a relief. “Are you going to the dining hall? Apparently there’s bacon, if we hurry there’ll still be some left.”

“No, I was just going to-”

“Spend the day in your room in a pool of self pity?” George raises his eyebrows, “That sounds great. Have fun. Well, I suppose I’ll have your portion of bacon.” He grins and walks past me, heading towards the hall.

“You’re such a dick,” I mutter, catching up with him after a few strides, “Have you seen Ron?”

“Not since yesterday, why?”

“He’s pissed at me.”

George laughs, “When isn’t he? Look, you’re family Harry, he’ll get over it,” He shrugs and glances at me, “Or you’ll pull yourself together and stop whatever arrogant, self absorbed behavior is getting on his nerves this time.”

“I’m not-” I start to say, then shake my head because I _know_ that he’s probably right. And I don’t have the energy to argue with him; I have another headache coming on, and I really just want to find somewhere dark and quiet until it goes away. At least I’d be able to focus better on keeping Voldemort out. But I am sort of hungry, and we’ve been eating mostly canned food for what seems like forever, so the thought of bacon is really wonderful.

“He blames me,” I say quietly, just wanting to talk to _someone_ that knows Ron, and George usually sees him in pretty much the same light as I do, “Which is understandable, because it was kind of my fault. I just wish he would _say_ something, instead of silently hating me and being a prick about it. If I could go back and do it differently, then I would, but I can’t.”

“Harry-” He stops walking, his hand on my arm, his eyes sad, almost apologetic.

“I don’t want your sympathy. I’m telling you because I am steadily running out of people I can talk to about this shit.”

“I’ve never blamed you, I want you to know that,” It’s so rare that George’s voice takes on such a serious tone, and I can’t quite look him in the eye, “Things happen, people get hurt, sometimes people die and there’s nothing we can do. It doesn’t matter how many times you say that you would to anything to protect them, die in their place, because sometimes it just happens too quickly and that’s all there is too it. But these past few years have been rough for all of us, and Ron was angry when you just took off like that, it kind of felt like you’d left us.”

“I had things to do.”  
“I know. It doesn’t change things.”

No, I think to myself, no matter how much we regret, there’s nothing we can do. We can’t change the past or erase our mistakes. And once people are gone, that’s it.

It’s been a year and I can’t stop missing her.

But it’s worse than that. She’s another in a long list of people I couldn’t save.

“Well, I’ve got places to be,” George give me an apologetic smile, “Look after yourself Harry.”

I don’t really notice him walking off, my vision blurs and I catch a glimpse of a bloodied, bruised face, but it happens too quickly for me to know if I recognize them. I’ve never been good at telling the difference between what Voldemort _actually_ sees and accidentally loses control, and what he invents me and _wants_ me to see. Although, given my history, I probably should have worked on it. That’s what Hermione says anyway.

I haven’t told her how bad it’s gotten.

She would nag, and I really don’t want that.

I lean against the wall and close my eyes, breathing heavily. _Merlin’s beard_ this has to stop.

But it feels like someone’s smashing against my skull and I can’t _fucking_ think and the only thing going through my mind is Malfoy’s stupid smirk and I feel like he’s this bright star and he’s pulled me into his orbit and there’s absolutely nothing I can do.

It’s taking everything I have to stop Voldemort getting in my head. He’s been known to rummage through my thoughts, and I have too much information, too many lives would be lost if he saw through my eyes.

And Hermione has theorized that he could probably take over my mind completely if he tried hard enough, which would be very bad.

I can deal with the pain- like my head is splitting open- I have been since I was eleven. It’s exhausting though, and I haven’t slept properly for years.

My legs collapse under me and I slide down the wall, the world spinning out of control. My palms are clammy and I feel them slide on the cool floor as I try to find something solid to hold me here.

People swarm around me, little more than blurry shapes, shouting words that echo so much that they’re inaudible.

I need to sleep forever. Maybe then I’ll be able to get a grip on what’s real and what isn’t.

 

Someone is screaming, begging, and I’m standing over them and yelling _“Crucio”_ over and over again.

His hand reaches out to me, small, trembling, soaked in blood- his wife’s blood, I know because I killed her- and I flick my wand again and he writhes in pain and I swear to him that _it will never end unless you start giving me names._

_Not real not real not real not real not real not real not real not real I don’t know this man I wouldn’t do this it’s not real it can’t be it’s not real not real not real not real not real not real…_

There comes a time when words don’t actually _mean_ anything anymore.

 

I wake up in my bed, quietly, slowly, not in the sudden, wrenching way I wake from nightmares. It’s as though I’m rising steadily to the surface of a body of water, seeing the sun glint through and kicking my legs, pulling myself upwards. And when I break through I do not gasp for breath, even though it feels like I was drowning. I breathe in an out. I am in control. In and out. I know what I’m doing. I know what’s real. I can break the surface of the water anytime I want.

 

I am in control

 

I am not drowning

 

I am in control

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POV: Harry again. I know usually alternate, but I really needed Harry's perspective for this scene.
> 
> He scowls at me then sighs, “This is a warning, Potter. They’re giving you a chance to hand me back in one piece, before they start threatening you. ”  
> “People are that desperate to get you back?” I smile. I shouldn’t be here; I need to rest, to build up my strength, let somebody else take over. But I can’t stay away. There’s something about Malfoy that’s just so… Enticing.  
> “I doubt that they could care less about me, Potter. It’s all about image,” He sighs again, and his gaze meets mine for a moment before dropping away, “Honestly, the Malfoy family have always been little more than…”  
> “Puppets?” I suggest, and Malfoy grimaces.

“Harry, please start talking to me,” Hermione urges, and she looks genuinely hurt that I don’t tell her everything. It’s strange; I’ve spent so long around people that don’t care about me that I’d almost forgotten what it was like.

“What do you want me to say?” I push away the covers and sit up, trembling and shaking and maybe shivering- am I cold? I’m always cold these days- and slip my feet into shoes, though my fingers are so unsteady that I can’t tie the laces.

“They’re been getting worse, haven’t they?”

“Hermione-” I protest, but I’m tired and don’t have the energy to argue. She kneels on the ground and ties my laces like I’m a child- her child. “Yes. I can’t control it anymore.”

“But I thought…” Hermione looks up at me, her eyes big and sad and she thinks she’s already lost me.

“And then Ginny died,” I say, and I can’t help wondering whether there will come a day when it doesn’t feel like I’m breaking every time I say those words, “I just forgot how to fight it, Hermione. Now I feel like I’m so far into his mind, that our souls are so _connected_ , that there’ll never be a way out. Even if- when he dies, he’ll still be in here,” I tap my forehead and grimace.

“Harry, you have to resist,” Hermione says, taking my hands in her own, her thumb gently stroking my scarred skin, “You know what happens when he gets inside, and someday you won’t be able to fight him off anymore.”

“You think I don’t know that?” I snap, and she flinches, pulling away, “I know what he’s capable of. And I know you think I’m weak, I can see it in your eyes. You’re probably right. I need something to hold onto, Hermione. Something fixed in my life that I could cling to, because I feel like everything’s spinning away from me.”

“You’ve got your friends, Harry,” She tells me, “We’ve always been here for you. Don’t forget that.”

_Fuck this fuck it all._

“I’m sorry Hermione,” I say to a closed door and her fading footsteps, “I’m sorry that you ever had the inconvenience of knowing me.”

She left today’s Prophet on my desk. My eyes pass over the main headlines and I tuck the paper under my arm, and I’m not really surprised by the direction my feet are carrying me.

 

****

**_“Narcissa Malfoy pleads for her son’s safe return_ **

_“Narcissa Malfoy, mother of Draco Malfoy, asks citizens to do all they can to return her son to her. During the trial of Hermione Granger- a known associate of infamous Harry Potter- yesterday morning, over half the court were revealed to be part of an extremist group, and promptly took over the chamber, vanishing with twenty-two year old Draco Malfoy._

_“Many questions have been asked why Draco was overseeing the trial; a position usually filled by his father Lucius Malfoy, Minister of Magic. A recent statement from Narcissa confirms the rumors that the Minister was killed during a riot some weeks ago, although the investigation is still ongoing._

_“The recently widowed Narcissa Malfoy said to reporters: ‘My son is my whole world now that Lucius is gone. I fear that harm may come to him, and urge his kidnappers to be reasonable, and to return him to us unhurt. The extremists behind this attack are supporters of Harry Potter, though they are not working with them. Fortunately, we can deny the rumors that Potter is back in the country, as we have many sources that place him in Eastern Europe, and assure the public that we are close to catching him.’_

_“The public is, as always, reminded to remain vigilant in the pursuit of peace and a prosperous civilization.”_

 

I finish reading and throw the paper at Malfoy. It lands at his feet, but he doesn’t look at it.

“These aren’t her words,” He says, “Sure, she probably stood on a podium in front of the Ministry and did her best to make it sound genuine, but someone else wrote this for her. Not the Dark Lord,” Malfoy says, glancing at me, and it feels like he’s reading my mind, “He’s far away and wouldn’t waste his time with this. But there are Death Eaters with lots of influence, and there’ll be a scramble for power now that my father’s death has been confirmed.”

I step forwards- pulled towards him, like a magnet- “So whoever wrote this, what do they want?”

He scowls at me then sighs, “This is a warning, Potter. They’re giving you a chance to hand me back in one piece, before they start threatening you. ”

“People are that desperate to get you back?” I smile. I shouldn’t be here; I need to rest, to build up my strength, let somebody else take over. But I can’t stay away. There’s something about Malfoy that’s just so… Enticing.

“I doubt that they could care less about me, Potter. It’s all about image,” He sighs again, and his gaze meets mine for a moment before dropping away, “Honestly, the Malfoy family have always been little more than…”

“Puppets?” I suggest, and Malfoy grimaces.

“Exactly,” He gives a cold laugh, “We say the right things, we stand with whoever has the most power and can offer us the most power in return, we show up at the right time in the right place… When we see someone falling, we abandon them, like rats deserting a sinking ship. No one gives a fuck about _me,_ Potter, just my name,” Grinning, he leans his head back against the wall, “Just like they couldn’t care less about you. You’re the Chosen One; they love you because they think you can defeat the Dark Lord. If they spoke to you for more than five seconds they would realize what an ignorant, irritating, pathetic _arse_ you are.”

Despite myself, I laugh, “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

I’m struck suddenly by the nature of this almost ludicrous situation. We went to school together, had classes together, played quidditch against each other, and yet here we are, years later. I always knew that he’d end up a Death Eater, he was too pathetic, too spineless to do anything else. And despite his attempt at nonchalance, claiming that nothing frightens him, he’s still a spoilt coward, a boy that had everything handed to him before he could work out what it was he wanted. I don’t pity him, because we’ve all made out choices, for better or for worse.

Neither of us were ever going to end up anywhere else. Once we were set on this course, we’re stuck, travelling on a raft down a fast flowing river with no way off. Strange as this is, it’s not really surprising that, after all these years, we’ve somehow ended up here, polar opposites, and yet…

“If you could go back and change things, would you pick a different path?” I ask, and I don’t know why I say it, because it demands such a personal response, and it makes me sound like I care, even though I don’t. I just really needed to talk to someone who doesn’t look at me as though I’m lost and broken and falling apart.

I expect him to laugh, to tell me to piss off and leave him alone, but he doesn’t. He closes his eyes and he looks so young, like the boy who was utterly terrified of the task Voldemort had set him.

“It doesn’t matter,” He says quietly, “We can’t move back. We just keep on living, keep on moving, and hope that it gets better.”

“Well, it’s not like you _had_ a choice. Neither of us did.”

This time he does laugh, “Oh, we had choices. And I chose the Dark Lord, the Death Eaters, my family- I chose to believe every word they told me and follow them blindly. I’m not saying I was wrong, just admitting that I always had the choice to doubt them. But I _was_ young and stupid, and I didn’t know any better,” When he opens his eyes, they’re no longer cold and empty, but instead shine with a sort of amusement, “And don’t even get me _started_ on you, Potter,” I begin to speak, stuttering, but he cuts me off, “I know that you think you’ve got this whole destiny, and that bad things just _happen_ to you, but let’s be honest, your life could have gone any way you wanted it to once you got to Hogwarts. You could have accepted my friendship, instead of Weasel’s and the Mudblood,” I try to ignore the almost wistful tone to his voice, “If you weren’t so self-righteous, you’d probably have ended up in Slytherin. I know you, better than you think, and I think you’d have made a good Slytherin. Instead, you got sorted into Gryffindor, and you sort of became this reckless lunatic. You put yourself in harm’s way over and over again, willing to risk your life for some great purpose…” He smiles again, sort of sadly, “So we made choices, and we ended up here,” Malfoy glances at the chains around his wrists, “Which is just wonderful.”

I don’t think he’s ever said so many words to me, so many words that _mean_ something, and I feel like I’m maybe on the brink of finally understanding him. And here, talking to Malfoy, I think I can just about cling on to the insanity of my life. It’s weird, but I’m too tired to question it. And I’m too tired to question why talking to him is so easy, so natural, whereas being with Ron and Hermione has become a battle that I’m steadily losing.

“What are you doing here, Potter?” Malfoy asks, and I remember that we don’t do this. We don’t have conversations, we don’t discuss our feelings with each other, and he means _nothing_ to me.

Except that’s not true. And it never has been.

“I don’t know,” I admit, “Maybe I was hoping that you’d tell me all you secrets.”

Malfoy smiles, and it looks like he understands. Perhaps he feels it too, this pull between us.

“You should probably take these damn things off,” He lifts his hands, grinning, “Otherwise this is just weird.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It would defeat the purpose of having you chained up.”

“You think I’m going to escape?” Malfoy grins, “But I’m having so much fun! Besides, I’ll probably be out of here in a few days anyway, so…”

I hesitate, then step forwards, still grumbling under my breath. It’s so odd, I think distantly, that this doesn’t feel strange. It’s completely insane, and I’m not entirely sure that I’m breathing properly, but it’s like I’ve gone from trying to find anything to hold on to so that I can stay afloat, to realizing that I might just be strong enough to swim without aid.

 

I don’t think I used to be this… poetic. But the years have beaten me down and my thoughts have gotten all tangled up and I needed to find a way to sort through them and make sense of this whole mess.

 

When I kneel down beside him, my hand brushes against his, “You’re cold,” I flinch at the concern in my voice. I hate it. I really _do not_ care.

“So are you,” He says, and I try to catch his gaze but he isn’t looking at me.

“I’m always cold,” I slide off the shackles around his wrists after I unlock them. I’m sat so close to him, and I can see dark purple bruises on his palms as though he’s been pressing his fingernails into his skin. His face is sharp, angular, his lips drawn back into a permanent sneer. As subtly as I can, I allow my gaze to trace over his torso, hating that he’s wearing this stupid white shirt, the top few buttons undone, his sleeves rolled up past his elbows. He’s skinny, almost delicate- fragile, breakable- his fingers long and bony. And even here, thrown into a freezing cell, tortured, probably hungry and tired, he carries himself so elegantly, his arms now draped carefully over his knees, the curve of his neck and back as he curls into himself is so beautiful that my breath catches, his long, blonde hair falling over his face, casting it in shadow. Everything about him seems so pale and insubstantial, and despite all his taunts and faux arrogance, in this moment he looks like he might just disappear.

I stand up and back away hesitantly, but when he looks up I’m trapped in his gaze. He holds me there, his grey eyes delving into mine, and his grip on me doesn’t break. We see each other properly now, for the first time in all the years I’ve known him, we see each other for the fragile, broken, things we have become.

“You just gonna stand there like a moron?” Malfoy says, breaking the silence, “Sit next to me.”

“What? Why?”

“Because I long for the comfort of your body next to mine,” He mocks, then shakes his head, “Right now, I feel like we’re as close to equals as we’ve ever been, Potter. I’d rather we didn’t continue talking with you stood over there, still pretending to be better than me.” I sigh and cross to the other side of the cell, sitting a foot or so away from him.

 

Not close enough, some distant part of my mind thinks.

 

Too close, echoes another part.

 

“I _am_ better than you,” I tell him, “I’m fighting for what’s right.”  
“And what a wonderful job you’re doing, Potter,” Malfoy smirks.

“At least I’m doing _something,_ instead of just giving up and telling myself that there’s nothing I can do, that the world is fixed as it is,” I glower at him, forcing myself to hate him and everything that he stands for. It’s easier than I would imagine.

“Why would I want to change the way things are? I’d go from one of the richest, most respected men in the country, to being practically nobody.”  
“Malfoy’s will never be nobodies,” I say.

“If your lot win this, if you _somehow_ defeat the Dark Lord, my family won’t be on top anymore.”

For some reason, the words just fall out of my mouth, “Not if you fight _with_ us.”

He stares at me, his face unreadable, “You can’t be serious.”

“Look, with You Know Who in power-”

“My life’s pretty great, actually.”

I laugh coldly, “Just keep telling yourself that.”

“For most people, life _is_ good,” Malfoy insists, “The Mudbloods and blood traitors are out of the way, we don’t have to live our whole lives terrified of being discovered by the Muggles- in fact we have infiltrated most of their governments- people have the chances to become richer, more powerful…” He trails off, looking uncomfortable, “Life is great!” Malfoy concludes over enthusiastically, his grin clearly forced.

“I’m sure,” I smile and turn my head to look at him him, finally starting to relax, even though that doesn’t make sense. I’m so used to having people tiptoe around me, going from scared to pitying in just a few minutes, that talking with Malfoy- who doesn’t care- is almost refreshing.

“Yeah, ‘cause your life’s so great,” Malfoy smirks, and his eyes go to the scar on my forehead,  “Dead wife, killer mood swings, your friends clearly can’t stand you anymore, everyone expects you to save the world, and look at you,” He gestures lazily at me, “You probably pass out after walking up a flight of stairs, you haven’t had a proper night’s sleep in forever, and you’re so desperate for someone to talk to that you’re _here_ for god’s sake.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, my life’s _fantastic,”_ I say, trying to ignore how much he sees about me without really trying.

“It’s no better than mine,” He says, and his voice has adopted that cold, nonchalant tone again. I wonder how he does it, going through life as though nothing hurts him. Perhaps he’s just used to it after all these years.

 

What am I doing here? It doesn’t make any sense. But the truth is that my whole life feels like it’s spinning out of control and I honestly don’t know what I’m doing anymore, or how I’m going to defeat Voldemort, or how I am _ever_ going to get my shit together, and talking to Malfoy I feel like maybe I’ll be able to fix my life.

 

“How did we end up _here?”_ He whispers, his voice breaking slightly. I find myself shifting closer, and I can’t really help myself because he sounds as broken as I feel. I should find something to say, but I can’t. I’m so shocked to hear him show genuine emotion, and I’m just looking at him, those grey eyes that have seen too much and his face that has become an expert in masking his fears.

I know that he’s probably tricking me, doing everything he can to influence me so that I give him information. I _know_ that.

“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” He confesses, and he’s so beautiful and I can’t really process the fact that he is _telling me this,_ in a voice that says he trusts me, that he thinks I understand, even if no one else does.

I shouldn’t be tempted so easily by him.

But I’ve never really been able to stay away from Draco Malfoy.

And although I’ve never believed in destiny, I can’t help thinking that we were always going to end up here, with me barely clinging to sanity and him doubting everything, both of us fighting wars we can never win.

I’m sat so close to him now, our shoulders pressed together, and I feel like I’m on fire and can’t _think straight._

Malfoy laughs coldly, turning to look at me, “Why the fuck am I saying this? You don’t care, you’re just here because you’re lonely and desperate and like that I don’t talk to you as though you’re wounded puppy. You’ve despised me your whole life, you have me locked up in a _dungeon_ for fuck’s sake. Why don’t you fuck off and leave me in peace? Do you get some cruel joy from my suffering? I imagine you think I deserve it-”

I don’t know how it happens and I’m not really thinking but I’m leaning forwards and pressing my lips to his and I’m kissing him. He freezes for just a moment, then his hands are gripping my shirt and pulling me closer, and everywhere our skin touches is not enough. My fingers twist into his hair- it’s softer, finer, than I thought it would be- and my brain just gives up on forming rational thoughts. He’s forceful, pulling me as close as possible, but his lips move with mine as though this is a battle he’s trying to win. One of his hands slides under my shirt, fingers digging into my skin like he doesn’t want to let go, like he’s trying to mark me as his. Everywhere his skin touches mine he leaves burns and scalds and bruises and I can feel every single one of them, because he’s sending electric currents through my body, filling my blood with his touch and the feeling of his body pressed so closely to mine.

 

We should have kissed years ago.

 

I finally get enough sense to pull away, breathless, but it’s like trying to force the moon out of the sky, and as soon as our lips part I ache for him.

 

“I… I’m sorry… I shouldn’t have…” I stutter, but he just smirks at me, his cheeks flushed, his hair tangled and his eyes bright.

“Well, aren’t you full of surprises…” Malfoy drawls, tilting his head to kiss me again.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POV Draco
> 
> “Shit,” Potter moves backwards, away from me, and I curse the part of me that feels hurt, “Shit. Oh fuck,” He says, running his hands through his hair and looking everywhere but at me, “I can’t believe I just… I’m such a fucking idiot,” Potter stands up and backs away, and he looks sort of terrified, “This didn’t happen, Malfoy,” He doesn’t sound threatening, just afraid and desperate. I almost pity him. “Not a word. To anyone. I made a mistake, ok? I was having a bad day and… And I fucked up.”  
> “Yeah, like I’m gonna go and tell everyone that I kissed Harry Potter,” I smirk when the blood rushes to his face, “I doubt that would do much for my reputation. And, for the record, I’m pretty sure that I’m having a worse day than you are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise that his chapter is fairly short, but it's been really difficult to write. It turns out that writing the scene after they kiss is actually more difficult than writing the kiss. I hope you enjoy it anyway.

I hadn’t meant for this to happen. I had never even considered _this_ as a possibility.

But here I am.

I should stop, I know I should. I should push him away and end this, because no good can ever come from kissing Harry Potter. Instead, I’m pulling him closer, and it’s like I’m breathing for the first time in years.

My hands trace over his torso, fingers pressing into his back, and I want to touch all of him at once. I don’t even think about the fact that we’re in a dungeon, and that someone could walk in at any moment. All that goes through my brain is an all consuming desperation, a desire to pull him closer and closer, to trace my hands and lips over every inch of his skin.

I don’t know how to stop. I don’t want to stop.

All those years, and this is where we’ve found ourselves.

His lips part from mine, and he’s pressing kisses on my neck, his hands fumbling with the buttons of my shirt. My breath catches and my heart is hammering, and I barely suppress a moan. Forcing myself to exercise some control, I enclose my hands around his wrists, pulling them away from my chest. I’m afraid that if he starts taking off my clothes we won’t be able to stop, and I really do not want to shag Harry Potter in a dungeon.

I catch his lips with mine again, and it’s sloppy and messy but neither of us seems to care.

I let go of his wrists, desperately trying not to completely lose myself in the kiss. But the part of me that’s telling me this is a bad idea is slowly becoming quieter, taken over by the rest of my body, urging me to deepen the kiss, to see how far he’s willing to go.

In the end, it’s him that breaks away.

He stares at me for a few moments, breathing heavily, his eyes on my lips. We’re both silent as our brains start working and we realize what just happened.

“Shit,” Potter moves backwards, away from me, and I curse the part of me that feels hurt, “Shit. Oh fuck,” He says, running his hands through his hair and looking everywhere but at me, “I can’t believe I just… I’m such a fucking idiot,” Potter stands up and backs away, and he looks sort of terrified, “This didn’t happen, Malfoy,” He doesn’t sound threatening, just afraid and desperate. I almost pity him. “Not a word. To anyone. I made a mistake, ok? I was having a bad day and… And I fucked up.”

“Yeah, like I’m gonna go and tell everyone that I kissed Harry Potter,” I smirk when the blood rushes to his face, “I doubt that would do much for my reputation. And, for the record, I’m pretty sure that I’m having a worse day than you are.”

“Right. Sure,” Potter dismisses, “Dammit. Fuck it all. I just keep making these fucking stupid mistakes over and over again, it’s no wonder my life’s such a complete mess.”

“I’m sorry, do you want my pity now?” I say, and it’s so easy to put that mask back on, to slip into the pretense that nothing hurts me. But underneath it I’m feeling more than I have in months, years maybe, like I’m suddenly filling with colour which replaces the various shades of grey that I’m made up of.

“I…” Potter stammers, and I try so hard not to want to step towards him and kiss him again. He sighs, and goes to leave.

“Wait.”

“What now?”

“Have you got a pen and paper?” I ask quietly, and he nods, “You’ve been in here for half an hour, you might as well have something to show for it. There’s a house,” He takes out a notepad and pencil, looking at me expectantly, “It’s in France, I’ll give you the address,” He hands me the paper, and I write down the details I memorized months ago, “I don’t know what it is, but this place was purchased last year, and every so often the Ministry gets letters from there, and people in Classified Operations visit once a month or so. I’ve wanted to investigate it for a while now, but someone’s always watching me, there are spies within the Death Eaters who feed back directly to the Dark Lord. I can’t trust anyone…” I explain, and somehow I’ve started talking to him without caution, no longer caring what he knows. I know this is dangerous, that I can’t allow myself to throw everything else away in favor of the ‘almost feelings’ I have for Potter.

“You have people in Europe,” I continue, “Have some of them check it out.”

“How do I know it’s not a trap?” Potter asks, taking the notepad back from me and examining what I’ve written, “That there won’t be Death eaters waiting for us there?”

“Do you not trust me?” I say, grinning.

“No. Of course I don’t,” He snaps, and there’s a cruelness to his voice that sounds forced.

“Why not?”

“Because you’re a Death Eater. You have no reason to tell me the truth.”

“Can I not just do you a favour? In return for you being such a wonderful host?”

“Fine,” He growls, “I’ll look into it,” He turns to go, walking towards the cell door.

“Potter,” I say quietly, and he stops, his fists clenching, “I think you’re meant to chain me up before you leave,” I can’t help but grin at the shade of red that he’s turned when he looks at me. Sighing, he takes a few cautious steps towards me and pulls the handcuffs around my wrists, and it takes all of my restraint not to lean forwards and kiss him. “Yeah…” I muse, “I suppose it _is_ a bit kinky now, isn’t it?” When he laughs, it feels like a small victory, and I wish I could pinpoint the exact moment that I started caring about him. Maybe caring is too strong a word, but I can’t think of anything more accurate. I almost care, and it’s dangerous, because it’s been years since I really cared about anyone.

I have nothing in my life anymore. A mother who’s fading away, a few Death Eaters that I call friends, even though I know that they’d stab me in the back if I had the chance. My life is lonely and pathetic. Is it so bad that I find myself longing for someone to care about, someone who gives a damn if I live or die?

And whilst I never imagined craving Potter’s… I don’t know. Affection? That’s an awful word. It sounds like it’s come straight out of a bad romance novel. Yet I find myself wanting something from Potter, even if I can’t quite figure out what it is.

“I’m sorry Malfoy,” Potter mutters, and his lips are so close to mine and I can’t stop staring at them and wondering if he’s going to kiss me and I feel like a teenager with a crush. This isn’t a crush. I don’t know what this is.

“What for?”

“For dragging you into this. For endangering your life,” He means the Dark Lord of course, I can see it in his eyes- I can’t see how he could possibly forgive me for this- and he genuinely looks so sad, not even trying to mask his emotions, “And I shouldn’t have kissed you. I’ve got enough on my plate without having to deal with that as well.”

I don’t regret him kissing me, and I certainly don’t regret kissing him back. I know that I should, and sweet Merlin do I wish that I could view this as of much of a mistake as he does- it would certainly make all of this easier.

 

Nothing in my life is ever easy.

 

And it’s been over a year since I’ve kissed anyone like that, as though nothing else mattered beyond that moment, like there was nothing to lose.

Somehow, I reckon my mother would be even less impressed by this latest kiss.

Well, it’s not like there’s such a thing as a perfect son. Everyone makes some mistake. Be it drinking large amounts of alcohol or flunking exams, or getting caught kissing another guy at the Malfoy New Years Eve Party.

Yeah, no one’s perfect.

 

I regret many things, but so far kissing Potter is not one of them. I feel alive again, like I’ve suddenly come crashing through a layer of ice into the freezing cold water. And I can feel everything at once, and even the pain is good, better than the all-consuming emptiness that’s been my whole life for years now.

 

“Like I said, I’m hardly going to go around telling everyone I snogged _you,_ am I?” I insist, doing my best to convince him I’m telling the truth, “It’s enough to ruin both our lives. I hope you realize that.”

“You think this is some sort of joke?” Potter asks, and his voice has turned cold, as though he has all the power in the world, “I don’t. If you say a word about this, to anyone, I _will_ kill you,” He tilts his head, and his expression seems almost cruel, “Do you believe me?”

I nod, slowly.

Potter may be falling apart, but in this moment, there’s something in his gaze that truly frightens me.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POV Harry  
> Voices wash over me and I barely register the conversation. I feel like everyone can see, like my lips and face and arms and everywhere is marked and burning and anyone that looks at me can see his touch.  
> But they’re hardly even glancing my way.  
> Malfoy was right, I’m not a person to these people any more. I’m a name, a face, a banner to display in battle. I’m the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, nothing more. I’m surprised to find that I don’t care. I’m not even sure whether I see myself as anything more these days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on holiday at the moment, and using my phone. Please forgive any mistakes in this chapter, as well as the hideous formatting which I will try and cixx at some point. I'll keep updating when I can. Thanks for reading xxx

**_“Still no word on Draco Malfoy’s whereabouts_ **

_“Despite exhaustive attempts to find Draco, son of the deceased Minister of Magic, Lucius Malfoy, authorities are still no closer to finding him. The Ministry is now urging anyone with information, or who think they may know something, to come forwards. They are also reminding the extremist group currently holding Malfoy captive that they have several of their supporters and friends as prisoners, and are willing to negotiate a trade. Notorious criminals Neville Longbottom, Fleur Delacour-Weasley, Sebastian Ness and Andrea Patterson are currently alive and unharmed. However, we have been assured their hospitality towards these prisoners will not last much longer if Draco Malfoy is not safely returned…”_

“It’s bullshit. They’re never going to return them safe and unharmed. They’re probably dead already.”  
“You can’t say that Ron!”  
“You know it’s true.”  
“No I don’t. I have to hope that our friends are alive, that there’s still a way to save them.”  
“He’s right, we have no way of knowing if what the Prophet says is true. They have no reason to be honest to us.”  
“That’s what I’ve been trying to say!”  
“And what if they are alive, huh? Are you just gonna let ‘em die, on the off chance that they could already be dead?”  
“Suppose this is the only way to save them?”  
“We can’t take that risk! I’m sorry, but they are only four people. They aren’t worth losing Malfoy, and putting more lives in danger in doing so. They aren’t that important.”  
“How can you say that?”  
“These people have families! What if it was you brother or sister? Your child, your parent, would you say the same thing?”  
“I would.”  
“Bullshit!”  
“A handful of lives, that’s it. And they knew what they were getting into when they chose this side of the battle. People die every day in this war. The longer we keep Malfoy, the more information we’ll get out of him, and the closer we’ll be to ending it.”  
“What’s the point in fighting at all if we aren’t willing to save a few individual lives?”  
“We’re talking about the greater good here!”  
“Screw the greater good. We’re losing the war, we might as well save who we can, protect the people that mean the most to us. It’s all we can do now.”  
“Back to your usual cheerful self I see.”  
“I’m realistic.”  
“You’re a downer. Could you at least try and be optimistic for once?”  
“I don’t see what there is to be optimistic about, and no offence Harry, but you clearly have no idea what you’re doing any more. You’re losing it.”  
“Shut up Seamus!”  
“Why should I? It’s what we’re all thinking!”  
“You’re tired and hungry, and you’re taking out your frustration on the rest of us.”  
“Damn right I’m hungry! I’ve been eating nothing but cans of beans for the past four months. I’m sick of living like this. Everything we do is completely and utterly pointless, and we’re gonna die young and full of regrets, probably screaming. There’s no point to fighting for this greater good, or whatever you want to call it. We save who we can.”  
“If you’re so unhappy here, maybe you should turn yourself in you miserable git!”  
“Ron!”  
“I don’t see why he’s here, he never contributes to anything.”  
“I have always done my best to fight this in this war. I was in the DA, wasn’t I? And what do you think I was doing that year at Hogwarts whilst you three were off camping? I was a significant part of the resistance at school. I fought in the Battle of Hogwarts, helped get Harry out, nearly died doing it.”  
“Do we have to listen to this again? Every. Single. Time.”  
“Well you lot seem to keep forgetting it!”  
“Nobody’s forgotten anything Seamus. Now’s not the time, for Christ’s sake would you just calm down!”  
“No, I will not calm down! Everyone’s just going round, pretending like the end is just around the corner when it isn’t. We’re never going to win this. So we do whatever we can to save Neville and the others. These days, all we’ve got is each other.”  
“We’re supposed to be fighting for everyone, not just our friends.”  
“But we can’t win this.”  
“We can try. We can do what we can to bring justice, to put a stop to You Know Who’s reign of terror, to prevent further killings of innocent Muggles and others that just happen to stand in his way.”  
“This is about Maria.”  
“Oh for fuck’s sake.”  
“She’s dead, and killing very Death Eater you find won’t stop that. If we apply your logic, she's just one life, an inevitable and unavoidable loss.”  
“How dare you! She was completely innocent! She didn’t deserve this! She wasn't like you lot, going out every day knowing that you might not come back. If I can stop other deaths like hers, and bring Maria justice, then I will.”  
"Will that bring her back? You think the pain of losing your sister might lessen if you soak your hands in blood? If it does, please tell me how you do it, because I've killed dozens of Death Eaters and dealing with this pile of shit isn't getting any easier."  
“Okay, can we please get back to the topic of Draco Malfoy? I think we need to decide what to do... Harry?”  
“Shut it Granger! If you think it ever gets easier, then you're more foolish than I thought. It never stops hurting, you hear me Weasley? This is your life now. I would have thought that you'd know what it's like, after Fred, the way it tears families apart. Honestly, after everything you've all put your parents through, it's no wonder they abandoned you and ran off to Spain."  
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"  
"You know exactly what I mean. You Weasleys have given your parents hell by getting so caught up in the war."  
"We're just trying to fight for what's right, we just want to play our part."  
"But you never stopped to think about what it would do to your families. Dean, did you tell your parents where you were going, or did you just run off one night without an explanation? What would your mother do, Seamus, if she knew where you'd been- of course, you haven't spoken to her for two years. Not since she chucked you out after finding you in bed with your best friend. I expect she thinks you're dead. I wonder, does she feel responsible? And don't even get me started on what Granger's done to her parents."  
"I had to protect them."  
"You didn't give them any choice. All of us know what it's like to lose people... And yet none of you do anything to prevent the pain you'll cause if you die. You're all such hypocrites. If we want to win this, all of us need to start thinking about the whole world, and what's best for the people beyond our circle. We cannot make the trade."  
"Alexander, your logic is completely floored. Losing the trade means abandoning everything we stand for."  
"Everything you stand for. And maybe you're just too thick and dense to keep up."  
"Of course, because next to Hermione and Harry I am painfully ordinary and normal, how could you see me as anything else? How could any of you see me as any more than the other one, the stupid one. I know that none of you can see why Hermione would stay with me when-"  
"Ron!"  
"What?"  
"I can't believe that you would even think something like that!"  
"Mate, no one wants to listen to your torrent of self pity again."  
"But we're allowed to listen to your complaining, right?"

Voices wash over me and I barely register the conversation. I feel like everyone can see, like my lips and face and arms and everywhere is marked and burning and anyone that looks at me can see his touch.  
But they’re hardly even glancing my way.  
Malfoy was right, I’m not a person to these people any more. I’m a name, a face, a banner to display in battle. I’m the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, nothing more. I’m surprised to find that I don’t care. I’m not even sure whether I see myself as anything more these days.  
People are shouting now, but their words wash over me and don’t mean anything.  
There’s a tapping in the back of my mind, a steady, unwavering beat, as though someone is knocking their finger on the back of my skull.  
Sometimes he’s screaming me, sometimes he fills my head with death and violence, and sometimes it’s like this; slowly driving me mad, until this damned tapping consumes me.

“Everybody quiet! Harry, would you please just talk some sense into these people so that we can focus on this Malfoy business.” The sound of my name forces me to concentrate, my blurry view of the room sliding into focus, voices becoming clear and audible.  
I look around and resist the urge to scream about how utterly pointless it is even trying anymore. We're all just so tired of this.  
"We'll make the exchange," I say, and there must be an edge to my voice because the room falls silent, and they all turn to look at me, "If we're seen to not care about our own then we lose respect and support. It doesn't matter how many times the Ministry says that I'm abroad, that I'm not involved, people will know that they're lying. Whatever you think of me, anyone still looking to us to resist You-Know-Who will expect me to fight for every single one of them, or they'll lose their faith in me, and in all of you," I sigh, and run my hands through my hair, "I know that most of you think very little of me these days. That's understandable. But we need to keep fighting, for the sake of all those who are losing hope."  
"It took us months to infiltrate the Ministry so that we could get our hands on Malfoy. You want that to all go to waste?"  
"We have as much information as we're ever going to get from him."

Tap. Tap. Tap.  
I can feel the walls I've built inside my mind. There are cracks, always cracks, no matter how hard I try to keep my defences strong. Through these cracks we sometimes see glimpses of each other's lives.  
He's always been better at getting in than I have been at keeping him out.  
Voldemort forces himself into my mind in any way he can. I have just enough strength to stop him seeing my thoughts, and I even fail at that sometimes.

"A name of someone who might be involved, and an address of a house in France? That's nothing. Surely you can't believe that's all he knows?" Ron glowers, his tone demanding answers, obviously still fuming and deliberately turned away from Alexander.  
"He's just a puppet, Ron," I say wearily, "Nobody actually tells Malfoy anything."  
"Is that what he said to you?"  
Careful Harry, "Yes."  
"And you believe him? Since when have you done anything but condemn Malfoy?"  
"I'm sick of thinking the worst of people," I admit, and behind my eyes are flashes of his hands his lips his eyes his shaky breathing the feeling of finally fitting somewhere. I close my eyes and lean forwards, my forehead resting in my palm, "We've grown up, I couldn't care less about some childish feud anymore."  
"He tried to kill Dumbledore!"  
"But he didn't."  
"Because he's a coward."  
"A coward. Not an evil mastermind. I don't know how many people he's killed over the past few years..." I wonder if he's responsible for as many deaths as I am, how many people are dead because of him, "But he's never been the sort of person who would actually be strong enough to take control."  
"That doesn't mean he's completely ignorant to what's going on."  
"To be honest, Ron," Hermione says carefully, "None of us were ever expecting to get much from him."  
"Yeah, it was a lost cause from the beginning. At least we have something, to convince anyone stupid enough to believe that we have a chance."  
"Just shut the fuck up Seamus," I hiss, and a wounded look passes over his face, but I can't be bothered to care, "Nobody's forcing you to stay here. But we've been friends for years, haven't we? Is it so hard to trust that I know what I'm doing?"  
Seamus hesitates before answering, "I trust you, Harry. If the last few years have taught me anything, it's that I can trust you. And I'll be by your side, fighting in any way I can, until the end, whatever that end may be."  
"If you want to hand the Malfoy spawn back to the Ministry, I won't stop you," Alexander says gruffly, "As long as you're sure you know what you're doing?"

I remember the way I felt pulled towards Malfoy, the way I still feel that tug in my chest, as though a rope connects his body to mine. I remember kissing him like it was all that mattered, how it was drowning and breathing at the same time. And I know that it was a mistake. Probably one of my worst ones. I don't know what made me think that kissing Draco Malfoy was ever a good idea. But if I could go back to yesterday morning, after reading the Prophet and making my way down to the dungeon, finding myself too far down that path to stop, I don't think I would change any of my decisions. I don't know why, but I feel like I might be doing the right thing for once.

"Yes," I say, surprised by the steadiness and assurance in my voice, "I know what I'm doing. And Alexander," I raise my eyes to meet his, "Speak to my friends like that again and I'll rip your throat out."

"They want us to meet them outside the Ministry at dusk," Hermione says for what must be the fiftieth time since we read the article, "This is really dangerous Harry."  
"I'll be fine," I shrug, each step sending a jolt of pain through my throbbing head.  
"You're not going," Charlie says, "We can take care of things Harry."  
A witch called Alice Lenny- she calls herself neutral- gives us the Daily Prophet when she can, and we can only hope that her indifference towards Voldemort lasts. Most days it's the only one way we can keep up with the outside world.  
I'd sent almost half the people here on a supplies mission last night. Now that they've come back, news of the trade has spread quickly. Unfortunately this means that now it's more than just my closest friends offering their opinions.  
"If you go to the Ministry, Harry," Luna says breezily, "They'll probably kill you. And we all like you too much to let that happen."  
"Yeah, thanks Luna."  
"That's alright. I expect we'd be lost without you."  
"We'd get by," George says, "Sure, I think some of us would notice your absence," He pauses, "But we'd get over it soon enough. Most of what you do these days is sit quietly in a corner and fight the craziness."  
"Whether or not you'd miss him is irrelevant," Hermione says sternly, "We can't lose Harry, he's our only chance at defeating You-Know-Who."  
"Like that's ever going to happen."  
"There are only a few Horcruxes left. As soon as we..."

Before I know it, they're bickering amongst themselves again. Between the constant arguing and Voldemort's vigilant assaults on my mind and Malfoy's face steadily finding a permanent space in my mind, I wouldn't be surprised if I've completely lost it by the end of the month.

I don't trust myself to be alone with Malfoy, so I make some half formed excuse, and Ron looks a little to happy to have the opportunity to pull a hood over Malfoy's head and drag him out of the dungeon.  
I feel my cheeks go red when my mind spins out of control, reliving the desperate way I kissed him, my hands on the buttons of his shirt, pressing my body closer to his, pressing kisses along his jaw...  
A moment of weakness. That's all it was. I can never let anything like that happen again.  
Voldemort has been twisting my mind, turning me into something I'm not. I'm tired and sick of it. I needed to talk to someone who didn't look at me like I was broken. I was weak, and that's the only reason I was there.

I'm so lonely. I'm falling apart.

Kissing Malfoy was nothing but a mistake. I don't know what's gotten into me lately.  
This could ruin everything.

"Harry?" Hermione touches my arm, "I think I'm going to stay behind on this one."  
I sigh, "We need as many people as possible fighting on our side, Hermione. You can't just back out."  
"I'm not," She gives a sort of smile, "You know that's not me. It's just that... I'm pregnant. I haven't said anything yet, because I don't know what to say, or what to think. But I know I can't put this little life in any more danger that it's already going to be born into."

She looks frightened. I don't know whether this was something she ever wanted, and if she had then I can't imagine her wanting to bring a child into this shitty life.

_"Harry..."_  
_I look up, smiling at her, until I realise there are tears in her eyes._  
_"I think I might be pregnant."_  
_My heart stops and I can't think of anything to say. Any other time and we'd be rejoicing. But the two of us are hiding out in a crappy motel where the paint peels off the walls and we can't stay anywhere for more than a few weeks. Just last week, three of our friends were arrested and executed in the midst of the crowds surrounding the Ministry._  
_"It's going to be ok," I tell her, but I can't promise her anything, "We've got each other. We'll do our best. I'll protect you both, until my last breath. I swear."_

I failed at that.

"We can fix this Hermione," I say, pulling her into a hug, "We can make the world safe again. This can't last forever."  
The two of us stand outside the entrance to our underground base, watching as small groups of people leave the defences and Dissapperate.  
"You staying behind 'mione?" Ron asks when he passes.  
"Someone has to keep an eye on Harry," She smiles weekly, then kisses Ron's cheek, "Good luck. I love you."  
"I love you too," He says, smiling at her like she's all that matters. I step back as he wraps his arms around her, burying his head into her shoulder. It doesn't matter how many goodbyes are exchanged, this never gets easier.  
"Make sure you come back in one piece," I say, forcing a smile.  
"We'll be fine," He indicates the intricate tatoo on his collar bone. Anyone not decorated with it immediately sets off an alarm if they go within fifty feet of the Ministry, a simple way of identifying rebels. Luckily for us, Nick Bash deserted his important position in the Ministry a few months back, so has been able to show us how to apply the tattoos. It'll buy us a few minutes, allow us to hide as many people as possible in the crowds.  
Someone drags Malfoy up the steps and into the open. I told them not to knock him out, our friends are safe only as long as he appears unharmed.  
They pull him up the last step too quickly and he stumbles, falling roughly to his knees. Without thinking I step forwards, crouching in front of him, my hands on his shoulders. He lifts his head, and even though his face is covered I can hear the smile in his voice when he speaks.  
"Potter," He mumbles as I pull him to his feet, my hands still gripping his shoulders, steadying myself as much as I'm supporting him, "Your friend Weasel hasn't bothered telling me what's happening. I can only presume this is my execution."  
I can feel everyone staring at me and move back, trying to ignore the way he leans towards me slightly, "There's an exchange. You for our friends. Your mother seems quite desperate to get you back."  
Malfoy laughs, "I'm sure. Your people will be massacred, by the way."  
"We have a plan."  
"Which you thought of?" He doesn't wait for my answer, "Well then, I'm sure that it'll go swimmingly."  
"I certainly hope so."  
"Harry," Bill says, "We should be going." We hadn't seen Bill in months before this morning, and after reading about Fleur in the Prophet he made his way to our base as quickly as possible.  
"Of course," I step back, "I hope it goes well."

I can't help but wonder how many of my friends won't make it back.

Hermione and I follow them to the edge of our bubble of defences, and I take her hand in mine.  
This isn't the sort of world a child should be born into. I know that all too well.  
Malfoy turns back to look in my direction, and I know that I care too much about him, but don't know how to stop.  
"Well, it's been nice catching up with you all," Malfoy says, his voice muffled by the hood, "We should do this again some time."


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco's POV  
> “Yes, yes it was dreadful. Merlin’s beard, I thought I’d never see him again… That’s not what I meant though. The thing is, even before that, he just hadn’t been himself. I’ve been just sitting by, watching him fade away these past few years. He hardly reacted when Lucius... I think he needs someone, before he withdraws too far into himself.”  
> I take a step back from the door, so surprised by the fondness in my mother’s voice, the worry I didn’t know she felt, the love that hardly reaches her eyes when she speaks to me these days. I wonder what it is that makes her able to speak to this girl so freely, and yet need to so completely conceal her feelings when she’s around me.

It takes me a few moments to remember why I’m in my own bed. My curtains are closed, but a thin sliver of pale grey light seeps through the gap between the two pieces of material. The world is not quite awake yet, and the morning still holds that quietness of the early hours. But it’s light enough in my room to see the familiar features of our London home. My desk still stands against the wall, its surface covered with neat piles of parchment, and there’s a single bookshelf, its contents carefully and meticulously arranged. There’s an armchair by the fireplace, a single photo on the mantelpiece, a wardrobe filled with elegant robes that cost more than most people earn in a year.

I’ve done very little to make this place home. All the books are dull and tedious, the sort of material I ought to read, but take no pleasure in doing so. This place doesn’t have the memories of our Manor in the country, of days spent curled up by the window and devouring all the books I could find, immersing myself in stories and tales of adventure. Those were the best days.

But there were evenings spent dining with my father’s Death Eater friends, and thuggish, stupid sons. I remember my mother sending us out the room after the meal despite our fathers’ protests, and her saying we were too young to be part of the discussion. But her influence didn’t last for long. After all, we deserved to hear what they were talking about, or we might get the wrong ideas.

But I already knew I was better than all of them.

Slowly, I sit up, pushing away the covers and reaching for my wand, before I realize it isn’t there any more. Dammit. Potter’s making a habit of acquiring my wand.

So here I am again. Soon to return to the never-ending excitement that is my life. Wonderful. I couldn’t be happier. I escaped from the deadly clutches of our enemy and lived to tell the tale. I’ve learnt to appreciate life, to live every day as though it’s my last, to remember that every second matter… Etcetera.

I should write that down. Knowing my luck, I’ll have an interview with the press before I even get a chance to eat my breakfast.

A few gentle knocks on my door, wary that I might still be asleep, that I might not want to be disturbed. Cautious.

“Come in,” I say, and my mother makes her way inside, her hands smoothing down the folds of her black dress, hair immaculate as always, her expression filled with carefully controlled joy.

She clears her throat. “You look well.”

I’m not sure what to say to that. Of course I look well. Any physical wounds could be fixed within minutes. And I’ve only been gone a few days. It’s not like I was going to starve to death in that time.

So I just shrug and force myself to smile at her. “I’ve been better.”

“I know.”

“And I lost my wand.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Might as well get it over with, “Mother, I told them some things…” Her eyes darken and she looks away, “Nothing big, just enough to keep breathing.”

“What did you say?”

“I gave them Carlson’s name. Told them a few rumors, about the Dark Lord’s protection of his Horcruxes, what he _might_ be doing right now. But I don’t know much, I think they were probably disappointed,” I stand up and cross the room to my wardrobe, opening the doors and running my hand over the smooth, expensive fabric, “They wanted dad, didn’t realize that he’s…“ _Dead._ “Well, they were expecting someone with a bit more information. If Potter wasn’t so convinced that he can save everyone, he would have done the smart thing and killed me.”

But that’s the thing, I realize as I pull something out of the wardrobe without looking at it, Potter does think he can save everyone, his friends, his family, even me. Surely by now he knows that it’s just not possible?

“Draco…” My mother says, and when I look at her there are tears in her eyes, “Listen to me. When the Dark Lord asks you, lie about what you told them. Say you gave them vague details about his whereabouts and plans, none of it remotely true, so that you could satisfy them. If Potter finds Carlson, then he didn’t get the name from you. Do you understand?”

I nod, and step forwards to kiss her cheek. He’s probably going to kill me anyway, whatever I do.

“I’m sorry, mum. I’ve made a bit of a mess of things, haven’t I?”

“It’s not your fault,” She tells me, patting my cheek awkwardly and moving away. It’s always been like that, careful, measured, cautious signs of affection before changing the subject. I know she cares, of course she does, and that’s all I need.

“You should get dressed, we have guests,” My mother says curtly, nodding at me before leaving the room.

“Ah yes,” I mutter throwing my robes carelessly onto the bed, “What better time to have friends over for breakfast?”

 

I stare at my reflection in the mirror. I thought I might look different, but I don’t.

Of course I don’t. Without thinking, I brush the tip of my finger along my bottom lip, the memory of that kiss still clinging to my numb mind.

 

Just forget about it.

 

Don’t let it matter.

 

I look straight ahead, meeting the cold eyes of my reflection, and tell myself that I will stop caring. That with every breath, every heart beat, it will matter less.

He will matter less.

I hate that when I close my eyes I’m back there, hands pulling him closer, terrified of parting, I hate that I didn’t realize what it meant to be alone until he pulled away.

 

“Stop it,” I tell myself, then repeat the words in my head until they don’t make sense, furiously wiping tears from my eyes. This is so stupid.

 

I can’t understand why he would do it. He’s hated me since the day we met. He’s never been able to stand my very presence, seeing me as nothing but the enemy. Potter has always seen the world in black and white, good and evil, heroes and villains. What reason would he have for changing his mind about me?

Except, perhaps, he sees this as an opportunity to get more information from the enemy. As though he can manipulate me into giving up secrets with a few kisses.

I ignore the sinking feeling that comes with this realization and force myself to think of this logically. If he’s planning on doing whatever he can to get information from me, I can do the same.

 

It might just be enough to keep me alive.

 

I sigh and reach again for my wand, to tuck it into the inside pocket of my robes, and curse when I remember that I don’t have it anymore. It’s like I’ve lost a limb. I’m nothing if I can’t protect myself, and I’m left with only raw, uncontrollable, unreliable, magic. Great.

When I make my way downstairs, I hear my mother talking quietly in the sitting room, and another voice, female, vaguely familiar.

“… all under control. But we need the support of the Ministry here, we’ve had some influence from various extremist groups, nothing we can’t handle, but my father doesn’t want to have to deal with it himself if something _does_ happen.”

I stand outside the room, not sure why I stand back, but somehow knowing that the conversation will stop as soon as I open the door. I can’t help being curious. And I’ve learned over the years that people not knowing that I have information could be immensely valuable.

“We’ll help in any way we can,” My mother says, “And sharing the wealth of our families will have its benefits.”

“I’m certain of it, Mrs Malfoy. You know, my father would have come himself, but…”

“Yes, I know, all that business with Muggle supporters,” My mother pauses, and I can almost sense her trying to find the words, judging whether or not she should continue, “I’ve been so worried about him.”

“It has been awful, all this business with his disappearance, and the discovery that Potter was behind it all. From what I’ve heard about this morning, he could have been killed...”

“Yes, yes it was dreadful. Merlin’s beard, I thought I’d never see him again… That’s not what I meant though. The thing is, even before that, he just hadn’t been himself. I’ve been just sitting by, watching him fade away these past few years. He hardly reacted when Lucius... I think he needs someone, before he withdraws too far into himself.”

I take a step back from the door, so surprised by the fondness in my mother’s voice, the worry I didn’t know she felt, the love that hardly reaches her eyes when she speaks to me these days. I wonder what it is that makes her able to speak to this girl so freely, and yet need to so completely conceal her feelings when she’s around me.

“I hardly know him, you can’t expect me to fix it all…”

“Try, please. Just… be there for him. Because I don’t know what to say anymore.”

 

And this has now reached the point where I wish I’d walked in when I had the chance, before I found myself listening in to something so uncomfortably private. My family has always shied away from saying anything too personal to each other, and I feel the urge to squirm with embarrassment at my mother’s words.

 

A house elf makes its way hurriedly out of the kitchen and stops when it sees me, eyes wide in either fear or surprise, and bows deeply.

“Master Draco,” It squeaks, “How good it is to see you up and around.”

I don’t have the energy to reply, so I just nod and look away.

“Would Master Draco like a cup of tea?”

“No,” I say quickly, “I need to talk to my mother. Go and do something useful.” It nods its head and scurries away into the plentiful shadows that line the walls and empty corners of this house. We’ve never been able to make this place home.

Sure, there’s a family portrait hanging on the wall, and a vase of flowers by the window, a few photos from holidays sitting on the desk, but it all feels forced, like we’re pretending to be okay.

We haven’t been okay for a long time now.

 

Taking a deep breath, I knock on the door and push it open, wondering how dazed and exhausted I can make myself look without appearing to be exaggerating. The corner of my mouth twitches into a sort of smile, but I keep my eyes soft and hope I look sad, uneasy, and not constipated.

My mother look up and gives a smile that looks far too rehearsed, and whispers something to the young woman sat with her.

I don’t recognize Astoria right away; after all, it’s been a few years since I saw her last.

She’s grown into her elegant features, carrying her slim body with confidence rather than awkward shyness and self-consciousness, her chin raised haughtily. And she takes a moment too long to look up and smile and me, to stand and walk towards me, just long enough to make me feel like I don’t have any control or power here.

“Draco,” Astoria says with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, “You look absolutely awful.”

“So does that dress, but I wasn’t going to say anything.”

At that she laughs, the sort of laugh that I know she’s spent far too long perfecting, so that it sounds both genuine and delicate.

“This style is very popular in France,” She explains, touching my arm, her eyes still alive with laughter.

“Yes, but you’re not in France anymore,” I say, moving past her to take a seat by the window, opposite my mother, “And that shade of green is frankly alarming,” I wave my hand in Astoria’s direction and pick up the book that I left on the table a few days ago. Strange that my mother just left it there, usually she gets one of the House Elves to tidy up after me…

“I’m pleased to see that you haven’t lost any of your charm, Draco,” Astoria says, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. She sits down again and barely manages to conceal her glower.

My mother clears her throat, “Shall we have some breakfast?”

I nod reluctantly and try to subtly immerse myself in reading. I don’t really care why Astoria is here, but I want her gone so that I can get back to wallowing in a pool of self-pity and try to figure out my emotions. It’s not a great book, full of obvious Death Eater propaganda and not leaving any room for other opinions, and there was a time when I would have believed every word of it. Now, not so much. And I’m not sure exactly how the past few days have changed me, whether I felt quite so exhausted by the manipulated evidence and statistics the writer pulled together into these pages, but the whole thing irritates me now as I skim through a paragraph of densely typed words.

My mother and Astoria are talking quietly to each other now, and I’m only half listening because the topic is limited to the dreary weather in Britain and some ignorant comments about Muggle politics. The world knows something’s wrong, that some great power is lurking in the shadows and could strike at any moment, but Muggles still remain ignorant to the truth, whilst their leaders do what they can to keep the masses calm.

“So… Draco,” Astoria says after a lull in the conversation, and I look up to meet her eyes- sharp, perceptive, the sort of gaze that misses nothing- blinking and putting my book away, “I’ve heard nothing but hazy rumors, and they’re all rather unsatisfying to a curious mind like my own,” My mother grips the arm rest at the side of her chair, knuckles white, “What happened?”

I sit very still and clear my mind with practiced ease, “That’s rather a vague question.”

“I just want details.”

“And I want my breakfast,” I snap, and my mother stand up, crossing to room to ring a bell on the wall, “Ask me something more specific, Astoria.”

She pauses, and I can see her trying to figure me out, “This morning.”

“What about it?”

“No one’s sure what happened, not really. No arrests were mad. You’re probably the only person who really knows what happened.”

 

I don’t want to talk about this morning. Of all the things that have happened this week, it’s the one that fills me with the most terror.

 

“The press will prize the answers from me later today,” I say sharply, “Can’t you wait until then? Or are you too much of a spoilt brat to be forced to wait more than ten seconds for what you want?”

 

I don’t break eye contact, but I’m not really seeing her any more and hardly notice when she storms out of the room. In my mind, I’m back on the streets of London, blind and bound and surrounded by muffled shouting. I can feel the Muggle weapon, probably magically enhanced, pressed up against the back of my head and the fear pulsing through my veins. Someone shouting orders, loud, sudden blasts from all directions. Dragged to my feet, stumbling through the disorientating mass of bodies and noises that closed around me. Even _I’m_ not really sure what happened, only that I fell at some point and must have blacked out.

 

“Draco…” My mother protests, her tone begging me to apologize, to make it all okay.

“I don’t know what happened any more than you do, mother. But somehow they all got out, and I’m alive.” I don’t ask whether Potter got his lot back, but I think the bitter expression on my mother’s face tells me all I need to know.

A house elf scurries into the room with a tray of food floating above its head, leaving it on the small coffee table and bowing quickly before darting out again.

“I want you to befriend Astoria,” She says, sitting back down and fiddling with the sleeves of her dress, “Her father and I have been talking about a union between our two families, to strengthen us, increase our wealth and power, give us more allies if people were to turn against us. We _need_ allies in times like these, Draco, people who will stick by our side no matter want. Family is loyal to each other. Friends and colleagues can’t ever truly be trusted. But if our families were to join, if you and Astoria were to…” I wonder whether she notices that she nervously fiddles with the wedding ring on her finger as she talks, that she can’t quite look at me, that her voice is shaking slightly at the end of each sentence, “If you were to marry Astoria then we could rely on the Greengrass family from now on. It would be the best for all of us.”

 

I don’t say anything. What is there to say? I might as well make my mother happy for once.

 

Later, when the flash of cameras fills my vision with fading imprints of colour, and their questions are too quick and demanding for me to give proper answers, I find myself adding to my story, a tale already distorted by the necessity of lies, adding a detail before I really know why.

But I do know _him_ , and his curiosity, the way his body can’t help but be drawn towards mine. I know that he won’t be able to stay away.

And it takes me a while to figure out why I’m leaving a trail of breadcrumbs.

It’s not until I’m lying in bed at night that I realize I just need to see him, that I’m already feeling the coldness that spreads through my mind when he’s not there.

 

_“… They took me to a church first. Maybe to count who’d gotten out, or confuse me, I don’t know. We didn’t stay for long, just a few minutes. St Andrews, I think. In a village… Little Worthington? That was it…”_

It’s not a trap, as such. But I feel my fingers reaching across the emptiness of my double bed and I just need to talk to him.

 

“Fuck you, Potter,” I hiss into my pillow.

 

I just need him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to take a break from writing, and it went on a lot longer than I thought so sorry about that. I've just started my A levels and the work load has increased, so I don't have as much time for writing anymore. Now I've got back into the swing of things I'll /hopefully/ update at least every fortnight. Thanks for sticking with me.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry's POV
> 
> “Sorry,” He says, almost like it’s automatic. A few seconds pass in awkward silence, and I’m trying not to think about Voldeort’s brand on his skin, reminding me where his loyalties truly lie. Eventually he says quietly, “I know you think I’m scum.”  
> “Yeah. I do.”  
> “A wise decision,” Malfoy sighs, “We all made choices in order to survive. It’s not like your hands are completely clean by now, Potter,” He looks around the church, smiling slightly, “Why do you think I chose this place? I know what happened here.”  
> “You don’t have any idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will probably be the last update until December because I'm taking part in NaNoWriMo and should probably focus on that. As always, thanks for reading. This is one of the earliest chapters I planned when I first started drafting this story, so I was quite looking forward to it. Also, my apologies for the last few chapters, I wasn't very happy with them, and might go back and edit when I'm finished.

In the end, we only lost one of ours. Hit by a curse, still alive when her friend Disapparated, but dead within minutes. The Death Eaters weren’t expecting us to get in without setting off the alarms, so that bought us a few minutes of invisibility and concealed our numbers. So, as I’ve been told, it all went much better than expected.

Of course, we don’t have Draco Malfoy anymore.

There are a few mixed feelings about that.

Mostly, people keep their opinions to themselves. Or at least have the courtesy to shut up when I enter the room.

Hermione’s busy tracking down Roger Carlson, poring through any records we have to hand, trying to find any trace of him. It’s no use. We don’t have the recourses to find him.

I don’t say the obvious, that we’re stuck back at the beginning again, but I can see it’s what they’re all thinking.

What else am I supposed to do? I’m out of options.

 

Flashes of mangled bodies, faces unfamiliar and unimportant, eyes unseeing and frozen. Their limbs twist in unnatural poses, arms and legs bent at almost impossible angles, distorted in agony. I walk between the corpses, bare feet on stone, occasionally stepping into warm puddles of blood. The only sound is the quiet rustling of my cloak on the ground.

 

I’m thrown out of the vision suddenly, and stumble backwards, dizzy and disorientated. Thankfully, the corridor is empty, because I don’t have the time for telling everyone that I’m okay.

My first thought is to dismiss it as another trick, just one more nightmare forced into my mind, but something stops me. It’s not that I’m sure it was the truth, that Voldemort was showing me a glimpse of something that was actually happening, I just…. I can’t quite figure out whether or not it was real.

And usually I can tell.

Usually there are signs, carefully planned detail, too many familiar faces, something glaringly unrealistic, that show it was all an illusion. The real ones are foggier, the edges hazy, the speech less clear. Other than that, I can normally just _feel_ the difference. 

So what’s wrong with me?

Either he’s getting better at hiding it, or I’m growing weaker and just can’t see these things any more.

Well that’s somewhat worrying.

 

I’ll put it aside to worry about another time. Right now, I need to focus on getting out without anyone noticing my absence and telling me how stupid I’m being.

Carefully, I push the door open into the room by the entrance. If all goes well, I can leave and no one will know for several hours, by which time I’ll hopefully be back.

“Harry!” A blonde girl says breezily as she jumps from the bottom step, the door shut behind her.

“Hi Luna,” I mutter, silently cursing my bad timing, “How’s it going?”

“No one around, they haven’t followed us back here,” She smiles, “Where are you off to Harry?”

“Nowhere,” I shrug, and really wish that I didn’t have to lie to her, “Just thought I’d take over the watch for a few hours. I can’t sleep.”

“Oh,” Luna says, “I can make you a charm, if you want. To help you sleep. I’m quite good at them.”

“Yeah, that’d be great. Thanks.”

“That’s okay,” She walks towards the door, then pauses, “You’re not going to that church, are you? The one Draco mentioned?”

“What?” I say, too quickly, “Why would I do that?”

“Because you’re curious, Harry,” Luna smiles sadly, “Just be careful, okay?”  
I don’t answer her, and climb the steps, pushing the door open and stepping into the late evening air.

 

No one else seems to care that the facts in the article don’t add up, that Malfoy talked about a location that wasn’t there. They think it’s not important, that they have more important things to worry about.

We’ve always got more important things to worry about, most of which are problems we don’t have any chance of solving.

I just want to check out this church, see if it’s significant in any way.

 

And there’s a part of me that wonders if he’ll be there.

 

It’s been three days since I kissed him.

I keep telling myself that I was tired, just reaching for a distraction, that it didn’t mean anything.

And it certainly meant nothing to him, so there’s no use thinking about it.

 

I’ve been to Little Worthington before, it’s one of the last recorded ‘Potter sightings’ before I started covering my tracks a bit better. I suppose Malfoy must have known, otherwise he wouldn’t have chosen that place.

The logical thing to presume would be that the church will most likely be crawling with Death Eaters, and I’ll be caught within moments of showing up.

Well, what’s life without a little risk?

 

I turn on the spot, and the darkening field spins out of focus, becoming a quiet village street, a small church nestled amongst trees and bushes. Last time I was here, three houses were on fire and Death Eaters were everywhere.

Two years later, and there are no remaining signs of the struggle that night. Houses have been rebuilt and repaired, the streets are clear and silent, and the air smells of nothing but the damp of rain on the cobble path, instead of the thick smoke that filled my nostrils last time.

No alarms so far. No one trying to kill me.

So far, so good.

I shove my hands into my pockets and make my way towards the little church, trying not to think too much about what could be waiting for me. I don’t know whether there’s a service on, whether I’ll be intruding on anything. Hell, I’m not even sure which day of the week it is.

The sky is growing dark quickly, stars splattered across the blue, but there’s still enough remaining light for me to easily walk down the path without tripping, stopping at the old wooden doors, one standing slightly ajar.

I could have been jumping to conclusions, I think as I stretch out my hand, and this could be nothing at all. It wouldn’t be the first time.

But I have to try. Because I know him, at least I think I do, and this feels like him trying to reach out, to contact me.

So I slide into the building, wincing at how cold it is inside. My breath escapes my mouth as white mist and I feel goose bumps spread over my arms, despite the thick jumper I’m wearing- one of many gifts from Mrs Weasley.

The church is small, maybe enough room for fifty people if you were desperate, and the decorations are simple. Perhaps that’s by choice, or else the Death Eaters stole anything of value. I know there used to be a stain glass window, but now it’s boarded up, casting the church in nearly total darkness.

“I can’t believe it,” Malfoy says from where he sits near the front, raising his blonde head but not turning to look at me, “You were actually stupid enough to come here. I knew you were thick, but I am surprised. Pleasantly surprised.”

I take a step forwards, “This is a trap.”

Malfoy laughs quietly, “If you really thought that, you wouldn’t be here,” I can hear the smirk in his voice, can imagine the way his eyes glint with amusement, “Take a seat.”

I consider leaving, not sure why I came in the first place. But I feel that pull that has become almost familiar, and I can’t help it when I move towards him, my body no longer listening to reason. My footsteps echo through the small building and I walk the short distance down the aisle, sitting down on the row behind him.

“What do you want, Malfoy?”

“To talk.”  
“You mean you want to blackmail me?”

He turns his head, looking genuinely confused, “Why would I… Oh,” Malfoy raises his eyebrows, “So your friends don’t know that you’re attracted to gorgeous, blonde Slytherins?”

I feel my face flush red and my voice shakes when I mutter, “Something like that.”

“Well, your secret’s safe with me,” He turns his whole body, arms resting along the top of the pew, “Mostly because I really don’t think anyone would care enough for this… Information to be especially useful to me. It’s not like I just found out that you drink the blood of Muggles in your spare time.”

I catch a glimpse of the Dark Mark on his forearm when he’s talking and I feel like my heart skips a beat. It’s so easy to forget everything he’s been a part of, all the things he’s done. Perhaps he sees me staring, because he pulls down his shirt sleeve to cover the mark.

“Sorry,” He says, almost like it’s automatic. A few seconds pass in awkward silence, and I’m trying not to think about Voldeort’s brand on his skin, reminding me where his loyalties truly lie. Eventually he says quietly, “I know you think I’m scum.”

“Yeah. I do.”

“A wise decision,” Malfoy sighs, “We all made choices in order to survive. It’s not like your hands are completely clean by now, Potter,” He looks around the church, smiling slightly, “Why do you think I chose this place? I know what happened here.”

“You don’t have any idea.”

“How many Muggles did you throw in the path of the Death Eaters to make your escape? How many of them died, I wonder, so that you could live?”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“Oh?” And there it is again, that slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “Because from where I’m standing, they’re the ones you’re meant to be protecting.”

“I did my best, which is more that can be said for you.”

The smile becomes a grin that lights up his face with amusement, and he shakes his head, “Seems like your best just isn’t good enough these days.”

There’s something about his laughter that’s infectious, and despite my determination I feel myself smiling back at him, “I suppose not.”

“Well congratulations, I’m here to help,” I look questioningly at him, but before I ask what he means, he continues talking, “I’ve come to the realization that I no longer have anything to gain from working with You-Know-Who. Some day I’m gonna mess up big time and he’ll kill me. Or, your lot will somehow defeat him and I’ll be killed in the aftermath.”

“You’re switching sides?”

“Nothing quite that extreme. I’m just….”  
“Ensuring your own safety?” I offer.

“Yes. Exactly.”

I stand up, no longer smiling, “Of course you are. You Malfoys always find a way to come out relatively unharmed.”

He shrugs and smirks at me, “It’s one of my many talents.”

“So you want my help? That’s what you’re trying to say?”

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

“You’re unbelievable,” I snap, turning my back on him and storming out of the church. This was all such a waste of time. All he wants is someone to watch his back so that he’s protected no matter what happens.

I can hear him following me and wonder why he’s so desperate.

But I keep walking, pushing through the heavy doors and stepping outside.

“You’re such a drama queen, Potter,” Malfoy says, stepping out after me. A few moments pass before he speaks again, and I struggle to work out how sincere his words are, “Look, I honestly want to help you. I want to stop You Know Who.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“I want to be on the winning side, does that surprise you?”

“You’re _on_ the winning side,” I remind him, exasperated, “You-Know-Who has won. We’re barely managing to stay alive.”

“Don’t be stupid Potter, you can still defeat him. You just need to destroy the last few Horcruxes, and then find a way to beat him, even though he has the Elder Wand and you are one of the least talented wizards I have ever met,” Malfoy shrugs, “But I can help you, supply information, plant fake clues inside the Ministry. With me, you have a chance.”

“And I’m supposed to trust that you won’t turn me in at the first opportunity you get?”

“Oh God no,” He smirks, “Never make the mistake of trusting me. Let’s just say that I’m doing this out of the goodness of my heart.”

“There isn’t any goodness in your heart,” I point out.

“There’s plenty,” Malfoy mutters, looking down at his feet, “And most of it is spent trying to keep you alive.”

“What?”

“Doesn’t matter,” He dismisses, and his usual confidence returns to him, “For fuck’s sake, just let me help. Merlin knows you need it.”

He’s right, we do need help. Sure, we’ve got a few spies working inside the Ministry, but someone with such an influential position, passing on information, could give us the edge. Sure, he could bring us down if he wanted, but I don’t think that’s his plan. If he wanted that, he would have brought more Death Eaters here tonight and caught me. He didn’t though. If he’s being honest, this could be invaluable.

“Fine,” I say, knowing that I’ll regret it, “Will you make an unbreakable vow?”

“God no,” Malfoy says, “That would be a terrible mistake. I don’t make unbreakable vows. Too much could go wrong.”

“Great. So how am I meant to trust you?”  
“Weren’t you listening, Potter? You _can’t_ trust me,” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a cigarette and a lighter, “it’s what makes me so fun.” Malfoy places the cigarette between his lips and lights it, cupping the flame from the cool breeze, eyes fluttering shut when he inhales.

I think he can tell I’m watching him, unable to look away from his movements, because when he breathes out he smirks at me, cigarette held almost delicately between two fingers.

“Since when did you smoke?”

He shrugs, “Since I figured there was no reason not to. Live fast, die young, all that jazz… Also,” He looks up, holding my gaze, “Guys find it really sexy, have you noticed?”

I feel myself blush and force myself to look away, “I don’t see what’s sexy about lung cancer.”

Malfoy laughs, taking another drag of his cigarette, “Like either of us are going to live long enough for that, Potter.”

“Not with that attitude.”

“Well, we can’t all escape death whenever we feel like it. Normal people die a lot easier than you do,” He pauses, “Unless you’re the Dark Lord, in which case it’s fucking impossible,” He nods at me, “Good luck with that, by the way.”

“You don’t happen to have a weapon more powerful than the Elder Wand, by any chance?”

“I’m afraid not. You could try bombing the Ministry? That might work.”

“How the hell am I meant to get hold of a bomb?”

“Why would I know? You’re the one who grew up in a Muggle family, not me.”

“Of course,” I say, “Because the topic of acquiring dangerous artilleries was a regular topic at the dinner table.”

“Well genocide was one of the more popular ones at mine, so you never know,” Malfoy says bitterly, smoke escaping his lips as he speaks, “To be honest, Potter, I’m not even sure whether Muggle weapons would work on him. Normal wizards, sure, but he’s so strong now… It would take something really fucking powerful to bring him down.”

“I’m aware of that, thanks.”  
“It’d be like trying to kill a God.”

“You’re not being very supportive.”

“A completely merciless, bloodthirsty, all-powerful God who’s practically a mind reader.”

“Shut up,” I mutter, but it’s relaxing to joke about this for once, to talk to someone who doesn’t avoid the issue, who doesn’t hide the fact that this is nearly impossible.

“Seriously though Potter,” He drops the cigarette and stamps in out under the heel of his shoe, “If anyone can stop him, you can. I don’t know what it is about you, but you’ll find a way. It might nearly destroy you, could even kill you, but a lot of people have put their faith in you, and for good reason,” He puts his hand on my shoulder, his face an exaggerated mask of awe, “I believe in you.”

I push him away, unable to stop myself laughing, “Oh, piss off Malfoy.”

“No, seriously, you’re my hero,” He insists, hands gripping the front of my jumper, but he looks like he’s trying very hard not to laugh too, “Can I have your autograph?”

“I suppose you’d like a signed photo as well?” I ask, but I’m now distracted by how close his face is to mine. His breath smells of cigarette smoke, and his shirt is far too thin for so early in the spring. Even in this darkness, I can see there are shadows under his eyes, that his long hair hasn’t been brushed with its usual care and that he could do with a shave.

“And an exclusive interview for Witch Weekly, you’ve been voted ‘Most Dazzling Eyes’ for the sixth month in a row,” Malfoy says very seriously, eyes meeting mine as he does so. Damn, he knows exactly what he’s doing. Bastard. 

“How flattering,” I pull his hands from my jumper, “But I really should get back to saving the world.”

“Oh the busy life of the boy who lived,” Malfoy muses, “Do you have time in your schedule for, I don’t know, dinner?”

I freeze, “Pardon?”  
“Next Wednesday, around seven. There’s this Muggle restaurant, Ember Court. I thought we could talk some more about saving the world,” He says, speaking very quickly.

“Right. I… Is this…”

Malfoy steps forwards and kisses me, hands resting on my hips, chasing away all other thoughts. This isn’t like the first time, his lips only linger on mine for a few seconds before he pulls away again, stepping backwards and grinning. It’s all I can do not to grab his hand and pull him back.

“What the hell, Malfoy?” I manage to say, forcing more anger into my words than I meant to.

He just shrugs and says, “I’ll see you on Wednesday,” before Disapparating.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POV Draco
> 
> Cautiously, because I don’t know what it is he wants from me, I reach across the table and place my hand over his. Potter’s eyebrows raise in surprise, and I think for a moment that he’s going to pull away, but instead he smiles, his expression a little sad, a little grateful, and another emotion I can’t decipher.  
> As for me, I just hope that he knows what I’m trying to say.  
> You’re not alone in this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long to upload this chapter, I had other things going on and jut couldn't find the inspiration. But I can assure you that this story hasn't been abandoned. I've made a playlist inspired by this fan fiction, which you should check out https://8tracks.com/teamusicandbooks/loved-and-lost.  
> Thanks for reading x

I check my watch for what must be the tenth time in the last two minutes. It’s only just gone seven. He’s not late exactly. There’s no need to worry.

Not that I’m worrying. If he doesn’t show up, then it doesn’t matter. I can eat dinner by myself. Makes no difference to me.

And it’s nice to get out by myself. Since I got back, my mother has been even more protective than usual, despite me explaining that I am an adult and the chances of me being kidnapped twice in one month are extremely low. After that comment, she’s settled with lurking in doorways whilst Astoria and I discuss politics over a cup of tea.

Yes, Narcissa seems happy that the two of us are getting along. At least I might turn out not to be a complete disappointment, which is a relief. She’s obviously trying to forget about what happened at the New Years Eve party. Well, she certainly never mentions it.

Somehow, I think the memory of that would be preferable to the thought of me having a date with Harry Potter.

If he even shows up.

Which is looking gradually less and less unlikely.

I look down at my watch again. 7:12.

I can’t believe I’ve been fucking stood up by Harry Potter.

Maybe I should order some wine. If he does show up- Merlin knows why he would, I was stupid to think he’d stoop to such levels- I’m not doing this sober. Besides, if he’s smart-and he’s not- then he’ll bring enough of his friends to bring me down.

Unless he thinks that _I’ve_ brought along a few Death Eaters. In which case he’d just stay away. I’m fairly sure he’s not stupid enough to have a fight in a Muggle area.

But then again, the rules have changed. None of us are as careful as we used to be.

7:15.

He’s not going to show.

A waiter brings me a bottle of wine, and I tell him I’ll be needing another glass, even though I’ve given up hope of Potter stopping by. He gives me this awful pitying look, as though to say, _“You’re date isn’t coming, is she?”_ But he still does what I ask. Something about the customer always being right, I don’t know.

I told Astoria that I wanted some air, and she nodded understandingly, and it was the first time I’ve felt like we’ve actually shared any real emotions. I think she realizes that sometimes life gets stifling, that house and family can be claustrophobic. And there’s something about the guarded way she speaks, how she never really tells me anything about her owns thoughts or private life, just politics and literature and the latest news. I know she has something to hide, something big, but I’m the last person she’d talk to. Astoria may not talk about her emotions, but I can tell that she can’t stand me.

I can understand that.

7:18.

I really thought he’d be here by now. I’m an idiot. Merlin’s beard, some irritating, self-centered prick kisses me a few times, and I can’t get him out of my head. I really must have been starved for attention. Kissing Potter though, that’s a level I never imagined falling to. To be fair, I’ve had a really crappy year.

I’m pulled out of my thoughts when he sits down, across the table from me, his hair a windswept mess, wearing a suit that he most likely pulled out the bottom of a drawer at the last minute.

He looks…

He looks fine. Could have made a bit more of an effort I guess. This is an expensive place. And he looks like he’s just rolled out of bed and grabbed the first presentable item of clothing he could find.

“You’re late,” I say as nonchalantly as I can, poring him a glass of wine.

“Apparently going for a stroll by myself at night is not a very clever idea,” Potter says, “Sneaking out of a place filled with people who think I need protecting is actually quite difficult.”

“I thought you had an invisibility cloak or something?”

“Trouble with that is Ron and Hermione have known me for over ten years and seem to be able to _sense_ when I walk past, whether I’m invisible or not.”

“And yet you still decided that coming to see me was worth the effort,” I raise my eyebrows at him, “I’m flattered.”

He pauses, “You said you had information.”

“I said I’d help you,” I correct him, because I don’t know anything new, nothing that might be of use to him. I need to learn what he plans, what he knows, and then decide what to do next.

“Why?”

“Like I said, you might win this, and when you do, I want to go on living my life.”

Potter frowns, looking almost disappointed, “Nothing noble then?”  
“Oh,” I lift my glass and take a sip of wine, “You know me, Potter.”

“Unfortunately,” He mutters, “I still don’t trust you.”

“I never asked you to trust me, I just want to…”

“Help yourself. I get it.” Potter turns his head to look back at the door, his expression anxious.

My words come out more sympathetic than I intended, “No one here is going to recognize you. And if they do, what can they do about it?” We’re wizards, we can wipe their memories if we have to,” I pause, “But if you want to leave, we can go somewhere else. I don’t mind.”

“No it’s fine,” Potter runs his fingers through his messy hair, “It’s just been a while since I’ve done something this normal.”

“Then what exactly _have_ you been doing for the past five years?”

He hesitates, as though trying to decide what he can say without giving away his biggest secrets, “Mostly just hiding out, finding alliances where I could. There were a few fights, London, Berlin, Venice, others too. Even the ones we walked away from didn’t feel like victories.”

“And Ginny?” I ask, hesitantly, amazed that I remember her name.

“What about her?”  
“You got married, right? No honeymoon?”

“We were mostly trying not to get killed, to be honest. There wasn’t time for a romantic fortnight in the Caribbean.”

“The Caribbean’s overrated,” I say with a shrug, thinking briefly of the week I spent there as a kid with my parents.

“Really?” Potter frowns his eyebrows, “One of my aunt’s friends went there on holiday, I heard her talking about it. Sounded pretty amazing.”

“And you obviously value their opinion very much,” I say, “You being so close to your aunt and uncle,” Potter hesitates, looking suddenly uncomfortable with the topic. So I add his family to the list of things he doesn’t like talking about. “Anyway, I only hated it because I was seven and stubborn and easily bored.”

“Haven’t changed much then,” He says with a smirk. Before I can respond, a waiter comes over to take our order, and when he leaves again there are a few moments of silence before Potter speaks. “There’s one thing that’s been confusing me…”

“Just the one?” I say, and he glowers at me, though not in a particularly malicious way. As though I’m a friend that he’s gotten used to mocking him, and tolerates it with half annoyance, half irritation.

“I always imagined that, once You Know Who came into power, Muggles would basically become slaves. But they remain almost completely oblivious to our existence.”  
“I can see why you would find that confusing.”

“Explain.”

I sigh, giving this issue more thought than I ever really have.  “It’s not as though we all sat down and had a meeting about how to deal with the Muggle problem,” I begin, trying to remember whether we’ve ever had a conversation about it, pull together what people _have_ said, and what I can guess, along with some simple logic. “I think the Dark Lord considered it, he had every intention of ruling over Muggles, showing them how superior we are. But he didn’t really…. Well none of us ever considered that, although as individuals they aren’t anything special, they have weapons we could never match, and numbers far greater than ours. They have…” I pause, “These guns. They just press a button and your head blows off and there’s nothing you can do. And bombs. Massive bombs. What sort of spell can protect against something that can explode an entire building? Then there’s that Adam bomb that…”

“Atom bomb,” Potter interrupts, grinning, “It’s called an atom bomb. Nuclear weapons.”

I narrow my eyes, “What the fuck is an atom?”

“It’s…” He shakes his head, seeming to take a lot of pleasure from my confusion, “Seriously, how have wizards survived this long? It’s really quite impressive. You think you’re so above Muggles, but you Pure Bloods, the lot of you, you’re all morons-”

“Alright Potter, you’ve made your point,” I snap, “Just tell me what an atom is.”

“Well,” He barely manages to smother a laugh, “Everything is made of atoms. They’re sort of… How would Hermione describe it? The building blocks of the universe. Malfoy, this is really basic science how do you not know this?”

I decide to ignore him, “So did I clear up the confusion?”  
“Right, yeah. You guys were scared you’d get blown to pieces.”

“Which is not part of the Dark Lord’s plans.”

“Pity,” He says quietly, “That would have made it a lot easier for me.”

I feel a surge of unwelcome sympathy at the sadness, the exhaustion in his eyes. I think I recognize myself in that look, that helplessness, forever trying to decide whether to fight everything the world throws his way or just give into it. And the world throws a lot at him. I imagine that some days it must be like trying to hold back the ocean, bearing it’s weight alone in fear of what would happen if he allowed it to crash upon the beach, if he allowed us to destroy everything he holds dear.

Or perhaps it’s not that he’s exhausted from fighting, from standing against the dark of the world, but instead weary from being carried along a path he never chose, towards a fate already planned for him. There have been days when I’ve felt like that, like I’ve lost all control over my life.

It must be draining, being the only person that people have put their faith into.

Cautiously, because I don’t know what it is he wants from me, I reach across the table and place my hand over his. Potter’s eyebrows raise in surprise, and I think for a moment that he’s going to pull away, but instead he smiles, his expression a little sad, a little grateful, and another emotion I can’t decipher.

As for me, I just hope that he knows what I’m trying to say.

_You’re not alone in this._

Merlin knows when it became so important to me that Potter isn’t despairing.

And I pull away, because this isn’t me, this is weird and different and strange and it’s been so fucking long since I’ve felt any desire to comfort any one. And then he pulled me back into his world and it’s like he’s brought a shock of colour into the way I see things, and all that was once blurred and hazy is sharp and bright.

Blinding.

I hate it.

“You want to find the rest of the Horcruxes?” I ask, breaking the silence that hangs between us. Startled, Potter nods and I avoid his gaze when I continue. “I can make enquiries, if you want. Find out what I can.”

“It’s not worth it,” Potter says, “There’s no way you can do that without getting caught,” There’s almost a hint of worry in his voice before he seems to correct himself, “And then you’ll talk, tell them everything.”

“I won’t get caught,” I insist, “And if I do, I don’t _know_ anything. Just let me ask around. You know that you’re losing Potter. As much as everyone wants to believe you’re not, you have to accept some help. And here I am, telling you I will do what I can to assist you. The least you can do is let me.”

He hesitates for a moment then, with a shrug, says, “Fine. What have we got to lose?”

“Exactly,” I reply, although all I can think is, _Everything._

 

The rest of the meal passes in mostly silence, though not the uncomfortable kind, broken occasionally by Potter’s comments on the food and the restaurant. But I barely notice those things, partly because I dine here so regularly and, though I despise it, because I’m watching him.

Everyone always talks about his eyes, whether it’s their reminiscence to his dead mother’s, or their individual brilliance, and I’ve always made a note of mocking it. Though, in truth, they have always been one of this features that most captivated me. Perhaps he doesn’t notice it, but since he was a boy, Potter’s heart can be seen in his eyes- Muggles say that eyes are the windows to the soul, and maybe they are right. Whether wide with wonder, or blazing with fury, filled with tears and sadness and loneliness, it takes all my might not to be struck down by the emotion in his gaze.

I wonder now, just a fleeting thought, how long I have been spellbound, by those brilliant green eyes and the fire that burns behind them, and not realized it.

Too long to have known what it was that tied us together.

If he hadn’t been sorted into Slytherin, maybe I wouldn’t have spent so long forcing myself to hate him.

 

“You’re not even listening.”

“Hmm?” I blink, realizing that Potter has been talking, “It’s not my fault you have such a boring voice.” That sounded childish and stupid. Thankfully, he doesn’t comment.

“I was just asking how you know this place. It doesn’t seem like you to go to a Muggle restaurant.”

“You think I’m too much of a snob?”  
“Yes,” Potter says without hesitating, and though he sounds like he’s teasing, I know that he still harbors judgment of my family, my past. Quite right too.

“This may surprise you, seeing as you’ve always struggled to imagine that anyone’s life can be harder than yours, but some days-”

“I know what it’s like to want to go some place no one knows you, Malfoy.”

“It’s not just that,” I snap, unable to control my annoyance at his understanding, sympathetic tone, “There are some really… Sick people around these days. Monsters. Witches and Wizards that were locked up for good reason, because they’re twisted and rotten, and the Dark Lord has them practically running the country. And I have to sit with them, talk to them, be sociable, whilst they tell me about all the-” I can’t help but feel sick at the memories, talk of tortures and attacks that have no place in civilized conversation, let alone at a dinner table. “Well, that’s not important. I just have to get away from all that sometimes, stop myself from going mad, or becoming like them.”

“You’re already like them,” Potter says coldly, “Don’t you realize that? You’ve killed at tortured and ruined lives, just as much as the rest of them have. You go around telling people, telling yourself, that _they’re_ the sick ones, but at least they don’t try to deny what they are.”

“At least I still have my conscience!” I hiss, disgusted by the thought that I could be anything like some of the Dark Lord’s henchmen, little more than savage animals, the lot of them.

“No you don’t. You just like to pretend you do.”

“I’m not in the mood to discuss my morality with you Potter,” I say, trying to sound dismissive enough to end the conversation. It’s funny, because with most people I spend too long talking about things that don’t matter, like with Astoria. We spend hours awkwardly discussing politics and I long for her to share the feelings she buries, to ask me questions I’ve never considered, so that we feel a little less like strangers. With Potter, it’s different.

We’ve skipped the cautious small talk, and end up exposing our hearts to each other whenever we speak, seeing darkness that others don’t, confessing fears. And sometimes I wish he would just tell me mildly amusing anecdotes or his thoughts on some piece of history or literature.

Sometimes I think he only talks to me because he knows I’m not going to give him sympathy eyes, because I won’t tell anyone what he’s said, or pass judgment. And I don’t know why, but I hate that he isn’t talking to me because he feels a genuine connection, just that he needs to let his feelings out somewhere.

I might as well be a brick wall.

Damn this is all so confusing.

“We might as well, _Malfoy._ What else are we going to talk about?” He gives a short laugh, “The rising prices of potion supplies?”  
I sigh and decide that I’ve pretty much lost all my dignity by even being here, and suggest, “Tell me about your day.”

Potter stares at me for a few seconds, looking as though he’s trying to figure out if I’m joking or not, “Why would you care?”  
“Honestly, I was hoping that this dinner wouldn’t be _entirely_ business,” I raise an eyebrow at him, amused by the faint flush that spreads across his cheeks, “I don’t have a huge amount of experience when it comes to…” I grit my teeth, “Dating. But I imagine that it shouldn’t entirely consist of forcing each other to tell dark secrets.”

“We’re not dating Malfoy,” Potter says threateningly.

“My mistake. I suppose the two of us passionately making out was completely ambiguous.”

Potter blushes again, but this time it’s not in the mildly fluttered manner as before, and he just looks uncomfortable. I feel guilty before I can help myself.

“You really…” He shakes his head, struggling for words, “You just have no idea, do you?” I thought you did. But you don’t. No one understands.” He stands up abruptly and practically storms out the restaurant.

I really need to stop saying things that make him leave. It’s becoming a habit.

I sit there, watching him walk out into the sreet, and realize that I could stay here, let him go, and move on from this whole business. It could be the end of my momentary madness, this weird fault in my system, and I could pretend that I never- almost- fell for Harry Potter.

And it would be so easy, to let him walk out of my life and never come back. All I have to do is sit here, enjoy the rest of my meal, and we’d both go back to our lives as though nothing had happened.

I keep thinking this, imagining my life without him in it, walking arm in arm with Astoria, standing behind the Dark Lord’s throne and returning to the cold pillar of stone that I used to be. I consider the fact that I could climb higher, or fall lower than ever before and still my life would mean nothing. I might marry Astoria, and perhaps we would have children, but I know that it would all be a lie.

So I find myself placing a few Muggle notes on the table, mouthing a quick apology to the waiter, and hurrying out of the restaurant, following Harry Potter.

“Potter!” I call out, pulling my jacket tightly around me against the chill of the evening air. The front of the restaurant opens onto the Thames; it’s one of the things I love most about this place, just outside is a river that has carved its way through history, a constant in a world ever changing around it.

He stops, shoulders hunched, and turns to me.

“You’re so damn melodramatic, Potter,” I say, taking a few steps towards him, “Wake up and realize that we can’t read your mind, and the only way that people are going to know about your problems is if you actually talk to them. It’s no wonder _nobody understands,_ because you just bottle everything up and explode without warning… Merlin knows why you still have friends left, from what I’ve seen you treat them like shit most of the time.”

“Can’t they just _see_ that I…”

“No. Honestly, most of us are too caught up in our own crap to have the energy to deal with someone else’s as well.” I take another step so that we’re stood with only an arms length between us.

“I don’t think I know who I am anymore,” He says dully, his eyes unfocussed.

“No one does. Get over it.”

“He’s in my head _all the time.”_ Potter pleads, and there’s such raw desperation in his voice, in his expression, that I feel the need to pull him close. But I shake that thought away. He gets enough sympathy.

“Well there you go, Potter. You’ve had the darkest, most powerful, Wizard of all time in your head for years, and you’re still going, fighting the good fight. Maybe you’ve messed up a few times along the way, but you haven’t given up yet. Surely that counts for something?”

He shrugs, “I suppose. But what choice do I have, but to go on? It’s not like I’m fighting because it’s what I _decided_ to do.”

“You could have turned yourself in. Revealed your position. Offed yourself,” I say, “And you haven’t. Give yourself some credit.”

“That sounds simple enough,” Potter says, turning away from me and walking towards the railing at the edge of the river, resting his forearms on it and gazing down at the water. He looks like he’s in an artistic photograph, with his messy hair and crumpled shirt, face lit by the soft glow of shops and streetlights, with the moon’s reflection on the still surface of the Thames. The breeze gently ruffles his hair, and he doesn’t seem to notice the cold that sends occasional shivers through my body.

If someone had told me a few months ago, that I’d be stood here beneath the night’s sky in Muggle London, looking at Harry Potter and thinking that he is sort of beautiful, I would have thought they were mad. Funny how these things work out.

I find myself stood next to him, looking out over the water, overly conscious of the way our shoulders brush. His shirt sleeves are rolled up and there are goosebumps on his skin, and I feel that need again, to wrap myself around him, if only to warm him.

“I’m sorry. I was a jerk back there. I _do_ know that you’re pretty messed up at the moment, and it was ludicrous of me to think that you kissed me for any reason other than that I was there. I still want to help but…”

“No. It wasn’t just that you were there. I don’t know what it is, but I feel like every way I turn, I find myself walking towards you,” He doesn’t look at me as he speaks, but my eyes are on his face, his starlight filled eyes, his lips… “Is that crazy?”

“Maybe a little,” I say, and I can see his shoulders slump slightly, “But who isn’t a little crazy these days?” I grin at him, relieved when an amused smile spreads across his features.

“You’re not as much of a prick as I thought you were,” Potter says.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” I reply, pausing for a moment to think of how many years we watched one another from afar and decided that we hated each other.

Almost without thinking I take a cigarette from my pocket, and Potter sighs irritably as I go to light it.

“What?”

“They make your breath taste disgusting.”

Now it’s my turn to feel a blush spread across my cheeks, and I hope he doesn’t notice. I don’t usually blush. “Are you planning on kissing me again, Potter?”

“That does seem to be how we end most of our conversations at the moment,” He says dryly. Shrugging, I put the cigarette and lighter back in my pocket. Doesn’t make any difference to me.

“I know that you’re pretty messed up too,” He says after a few moments of silence, “And even though we don’t have the same problems, I genuinely think that you can understand some of mine better than most. And the life you lead, the way you talk sometimes, I often think you’re about as messed up as I am.”

“Maybe you’re right,” I smirk at him, “There’s a first.”

Potter shakes his head, “Shut up.”

“Harry?” I ask, tentative about using his first name, and ever so slightly delighted by the way his eyebrows raise a little in surprise. “Do you ever wish that you had been as a nobody? Just another unimportant guy, whose actions would never have any large or lasting affect on the world?”  
He thinks for a few seconds, “Sometimes. But someone has to be the one to make a difference, and when it’s all done I can say ‘this is my legacy.’ If I do get killed, at least I’ll go down trying to change things, to save people,” Potter says quietly, turning to look at him and I can tell that his words are sincere, “Do you ever wish that?”

“I didn’t use to. Lately though…” I think of all the times that my word has decided whether someone lives or dies, that my own security is determined by our ability to keep the Dark Lord’s favour, and that if something goes wrong I could be one of the ones made to suffer for it. “If I could sink into the background, I would. There’s so much that I would take back, you know?”

“Yeah.”

I reach out like I did earlier and take his hand- it’s cold, like stone- and this time I don’t pull away.

I was going to try and get information from him, to get him to confess his secrets. But I don’t think I want that anymore. I can’t quite work out what it is, but right now I just want to be near him.

I take a step away from the railing, and he follows, hand still clasped in mine.

“You’re hands are cold,” I tell him.

“I can’t feel them.”

“That’s probably not a good sign.”

I tug on his hand gently, and he moves towards me. I close the gap between us and kiss him, our lips pressing against each other in a way that’s so startling chaste compared to that first time. Perhaps it’s because then we were both falling apart, and when we kissed we didn’t stop collapsing. But now, maybe, we are trying to fix ourselves, fix each other. And the thought fills me with hope, that if we can see the good in each other, maybe one day we’ll see it in ourselves.

That doesn’t mean I don’t long for more, to take the kiss further, to run my hands over his body and pull him so close that his touch is all that I can think of.

But not here.

“So you’ll make investigations into the Horcruxes, try to find some information for us?”

I suppress a sigh at his business like tone, “Of course.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m not doing it for you,” I remind him.

“I know. You need to think of your own wellbeing.” Potter says, a hint of irritation in his voice.

“Who’s gonna worry about me if I don’t?”

“That’s true,” He shakes his head, pulling on my hand as he turns to make his way down the street. I match my step to his, and we walk close to each other, and I think about how everything seems so very far away from this moment, this place, our fingers laced together.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POV Harry
> 
> “Are you drunk?” I say, unable to stop the worried tone to my voice and immediately embarrassed by my own concern. Malfoy smirks and pulls away, and only now do I notice how disheveled he looks, hair cut shorter but uneven and messy, his shirt crumpled, the collar over his jacket on one side but tucked under on the other.  
> “No,” He insists, taking another step away from me, “Only a little.” Malfoy’s gaze is wild, his actions jumpy. I’m struck by how strangely vulnerable he appears.  
> “Are you alright?” I ask gingerly.

I push the door open slowly, wincing when it screeches loudly like an obnoxious alarm sounding my presence, and step into the kitchen. Hermione and Ron are leaning against the counter, each holding a cup of tea in old, cracked mugs and fixing me with thunderous gazes.

“Where were you?” Hermione asks, “You disappeared. We thought something had happened. Dean’s been scouring the countryside for any sign of you, Nick’s been trying to get inside London to meet with our spies there, in case the Death Eaters had you, Alex has been watching the Muggle news, we’ve been going crazy!”

Well this is great.

“I was just out walking.”

“You were gone for five hours,” Ron says wearily, “You can’t just walk off like that, mate.”

“Why not?”  
“Because, _Harry,”_ Hermione says, “You’re our friend and we worry about you.”

“Really?” I snap, too loudly, “This is just because you care about me?”

Hermione sighs, exasperated, “Well, you _are_ pretty much the only hope we have left these days. And if we lose you, we lose the war. That’s the reality of it,” She glares at me, “Is that what you wanted to hear.”

“At least you’re being honest with me.”

“All we ask is that you return the favour,” Hermione says, and the kindness in her voice grates on my nerves.  

They pester me for an explanation but I don’t know where to begin. How do I tell them where I’ve been? How do I find words so that it makes sense? I know that there’s really nothing I can say to explain it, nothing that would make them see how I don’t understand but it somehow feels right. Hell, as far as my friends are aware I’m straight. My sexuality has never really seemed to be much of an importance in the big scheme of things. _“So we’re on the run from Voldemort and all our friends are dead. By the way, I’m bisexual. Isn’t the weather lovely?”_ I’m sure that would have gone well.

“I just…” I shrug, trying to find an answer that will satisfy them, “I wanted to get away from here, with all of you breathing down my neck, looking at me as though I’m about to either pass out or kill everyone,” Hermione winces slightly, and I almost regret my harsh tone, “I’m sorry I worried you, but I really don’t need all of _you lot_ telling what I can and can’t do.”

“We’re only trying to help, Harry...” Hermione says quietly, and I notice the way her hand rests almost absentmindedly over her belly, and I can feel the weight of my wedding ring around my neck, and Ron’s steady gaze that I can’t quite avoid. I think of James, and Teddy, who I promised to protect, and had to send them hundreds of miles away so that I could do that. And I can’t help but imagine how Ron would react if he were to find out where I’d been, that he’d believe I had replaced his sister with scum like Malfoy, and that nothing that I would say could ever make him think anything else.

“I know,” I say eventually, “I know. I’m just tired.” And that’s not entirely a lie.

It’s six days before I will meet with Malfoy again, and they pass in a haze of mundane tasks, pouring over old books and newspapers and finding nothing.

 

I Apparate onto a quiet back street where we last parted. At first I don’t see him, but then he’s standing in front of me, and I hardly have time to think before he pushes me against the wall and kisses me. His hands are on my shoulders, fingers digging into my skin, and his mouth tastes of alcohol. But still I move closer, as I always do, pulling my arms from his grip to wrap them around his neck, my fingers twisting in his fine, silky hair. His mouth moves against mine, my lips part and his tongue slips inside, and I don’t think, I just kiss him back, and his hands press against my hips, fingers hooking into my belt loops. I thought I couldn’t be any closer to him, and yet still he pulls against me, until I can hardly tell when I end and he begins.

When he breaks away I forget to breathe, to think, for a second.

“Are you drunk?” I say, unable to stop the worried tone to my voice and immediately embarrassed by my own concern. Malfoy smirks and pulls away, and only now do I notice how disheveled he looks, hair cut shorter but uneven and messy, his shirt crumpled, the collar over his jacket on one side but tucked under on the other.

“No,” He insists, taking another step away from me, “Only a little.” Malfoy’s gaze is wild, his actions jumpy. I’m struck by how strangely vulnerable he appears.

“Are you alright?” I ask gingerly.

“I’m fine,” He tells me, grinning almost madly up at the cloudy night’s sky. And I would press for more, but I get the sense that he’ll keep talking without me prompting him. I can’t help but wonder whether he just needs someone, and doesn’t care whether that someone is me. “It’s just, my mother, okay? You know how- well your mother’s dead. You won’t understand. But she’s so _fucking determined_ to control my life. She keeps trying to set me up with this… girl and I don’t know what to do because I can’t _keep_ disappointing her, I’m all she has left. You see, Harry, Purebloods only really care about one thing: their Pureblood children marrying other Pureblood children and having lots of little Pureblood children of their own. And it doesn’t matter how many guys I make out with at parties, or how many times I’ve told my mother I’m gay, that isn’t going to change. Because what’s the point if I don’t continue the bloodline?” He looks towards me, the wildness in his eyes turning to a lonely sort of sadness, “What’s the point, huh Potter?”

I hate that I feel pulled to him now, still drawn towards him, meteors hurtling towards each other. I touch his arm, feel that sense of being _grounded_ and yet so completely out of control, my other hand gently taking hold of his shirt, and it still amazes me how the whole world seems to be blurred aside from us, sharp and bright and so in focus.

“Maybe if you just explained to her…” I suggest, knowing that the words sound stupid.

Draco laughs bitterly, shaking his head at me and pulling away. My hands linger a moment in the air before falling to my sides.

“I always thought she cared about me but… No. I don’t think she does. She tried but. Well I’ve always thought that relationships only really work if there’s a sort of mutual respect- don’t you think so, Potter? But she doesn’t respect me. She just wants me to get married and make sure she has little Malfoy grandchildren and I can’t do that I can’t I can’t-” He runs his fingers through his hair, his whole body sparking with desperation. And I don’t know what to do, because this is so alien to me. The walls are down, the pretense gone, and there’s so much _need_ in his eyes. That desire for someone to reach out. This isn’t the Malfoy that I’m used to, cold and calculating and everything hidden behind a snide remark. This is the Malfoy of our sixth year, crying in bathrooms with the weight of an impossible task crushing him. All those feelings he hides from the world.

“If she doesn’t respect you then there’s no reason for you to have any respect for her. She’s not the boss of you. You’re an adult for fuck’s sake, you don’t have to do what your mother tells you to,” I don’t mean it to sound mocking, but old habits I suppose, “What’s the worst that could happen if you just… Refuse to be set up with this girl?” It all seems so old fashioned, a little ridiculous, yet despite how little I really know him, I can see that it’s tearing him up inside.

“Okay. Right,” He lurches forwards and places his hands on my shoulders, his face so close to mine that I can smell the alcohol on his breath when he speaks again, “But if I fall out with my mother, if we lose this contact with the French minister then we could fall out of the Dark Lord’s favour. And then what use am I to you?” Draco leans forward and rests his forehead against mine, “It’s not like you’d want anything more to do with me if I no longer have any information to give you…”

I don’t know what to say to that, because I know that, at least on some level, he’s right. If he can’t help me, how do I justify sneaking out to see him? But I don’t think I’d just be able to stay away from him, not now.

I wish I knew how to help him, but I don’t. I don’t even know how to act around him when confessions and fears are tumbling from his lips and he seems so vulnerable and out of control.

“I should go,” Draco pulls away, avoiding my gaze.

“Don’t be an idiot,” I say, shoving my hands in my pockets, “I can’t let you go home,” He scoffs at me, but I continue, “Merlin knows what sort of trouble you’d get yourself into. Let’s just go get a coffee somewhere, okay?”

Malfoy pulls away, and when usually he would smirk or force his expression to be neutral, his face softens in a sort of disappointment. “Yeah, whatever.” I probably should have said something different, told him that I don’t care any more if he can help me survive, maybe even win. And the truth still remains that the people closest to me are the ones who get hurt, the ones caught in the crossfire, or in the wrong place at the wrong time. And I don’t want to add his name to that list.

 _“Stupify!”_ Someone shouts, and Draco shoves me against the wall to push me out of the way of the spell, which hits a lamppost a few metres away. We both whirl around, pulling wands from our pockets, searching the shadows for our attackers. Something moves, a slight twitch in the darkness, and Draco flicks his wrist, sending a shower of sparks in their direction, blowing bricks to pieces. His aim is off.

Three figures step into the darkness of the alley, all of them casting spells in such quick succession that for a few seconds all we can do is defend as best we can. Fortunately none of them are particularly skilled, and once we recover from our surprise we push them back to the end of the street. Lit up by the bright sparks being thrown in every direction, I can get a good look at them. Two men and a woman, all of them gaunt and dirty, their clothes little more than rags, their eyes full of wild desperation.

The pity I might once have felt is shattered when one of them aims a killing curse that I only just manage to pull Draco away from. I slash my wand through the air, the spells coming instinctually to me, until we force them against a wall, weaponless.

“We’re weren’t…” The woman says breathlessly, hands raised in front of her, “We thought you were Muggles.”

“Oh, did you?” Malfoy says, “Might I suggest that you attack a little quieter next time.”

“I swear, if I’d known it was you Malfoy, I obviously wouldn’t have-“ The darker haired man’s eyes slide over to me, and his face shifts as he recognizes me, “You… What is this?”

“Nothing,” I say quickly, thinking only of the killing curse they had aimed at Draco, “What are _you_ doing?”

“Nothing,” The woman imitates mockingly, then turns her head to glower at Malfoy, “We were just looking to get a little money, I have a son we... We wouldn’t have _actually_ hurt you. _We’re_ not the murderers here,” She says venomously at Draco.

Malfoy sighs, “And what good would robbing Muggles do you?”

“We’d just rather live in the Muggle world at the moment, _sir._ So we need Muggle money.”

The second man, with lighter hair and finer features, fixes his hateful gaze on me, and I feel my stomach twist into knots, “You’re meant to be helping us, Potter, the Muggleborns, Squibs, those of us still in defiance of the Death Eaters.”

“Believe me, I’m trying.”  
“Oh yeah? Because from where I’m standing it kinda looks like you’re giving up,” He shakes his head, “You’re creeping around with _him._ No one’s heard anything about you for months; you might as well be dead. But what does it matter? We all lost hope in you after you abandoned us at the Battle of Hogwarts, when you left us all to be slaughtered by You Know Who’s men, forced to kneel to him if we wanted to walk out alive.”

“Albert-“ The other man says warningly, but he’s ignored.

“So sure, go with Malfoy, give up on fighting for us. Do you even know what it’s like? In the cities? You used to be a hero, Harry Potter. Now what are you?”

“That’s enough!” His friend snaps, but Albert takes a step towards me, snarling with an animal-like fury.

“Slinking around in alleys instead of fighting? What a great end to the boy who lived. There was a time when I thought you really could save us.  But I’m starting to think that you’re no different from the self-obsessed prat the Prophet makes you out to be.”

Something snaps inside me, an anger that comes from a part of me that has forced its way into my mind, sitting in my thoughts like jagged glass. And the shard twists, and I lose myself for a moment.

 

_Are you going to let him speak to you like that?_

_Does he not understand loyalty?_

_Why don’t you_ make _him understand?_

My thoughts coil into blinding rage. This man doesn’t know what it’s been like. If it’d been _my_ choice I would never have left the Battle. Someone else decided I was better off alive and it has been _me_ who has had to live with the consequences every day since. Every death since that day has stained me, has tinged my already twisted soul with their blood.

 

Despite what he says, I have fought.

 

I slice my wand through the air, and the words sound like a distant echo, and when he screams it only fuels my anger.

 

Every hour, of every day, I fight the evil in my own mind. I fight to protect my friends from myself.

 

And I am losing myself along the way, but it doesn’t matter, as long as _they_ stay safe. As long as Voldemort can’t reach them. Because that’s all I can care about now.

 

But he dares to stand there, to tell me that I am a coward, that I have given up. Yet he is the one attacking Muggles for their money, bowing before the _Dark Lord,_ selfishly keeping himself alive and doing _nothing_ to bring an end to Voldemort’s power.

 

He is nothing compared to me.

 

And he has no right to think I am weak.

 

“Harry stop.”

I feel Draco’s hand close over mine, let him take my wand, and his touch reminds me of the ground beneath my feet, and my vision clears. I become aware of the man curled up on the pavement, his hands clenched, face pale as he slowly, cautiously, sits up. And the others, staring at me in fear, and I’m shaking and suddenly it’s all too clear and I long for the blinding haze to return and hide the clarity of what I’ve done.

The rage has faded, leaving me empty and weak.

I can put together the pieces, concentrating on the flashes of memory that come back to me, and that foreign rage that consumed me. Unforgiveable Curses have grown easier to use over the years, and usually I can justify it, but this is the first time that I’ve completely lost control like that, flung the Cruciatus curse at someone and not thought that, on some level, they deserved it.

The woman pulls Albert to his feet, shooting me a wary, hateful glare, “You’re a monster Harry Potter,” She looks over at Draco, “Just like him. And I’m sure You Know Who would be _fascinated_ to hear that-” Draco waves his own wand, almost lazily, and the three of them fall backwards, unconscious.

“What are you doing?” I hiss as he kneels next to them.

“Clearing up your mess, Potter. She was right, the Dark Lord would find this information far too useful. We can’t let him find out that the two of us were here together.”

“So that _you_ don’t get killed?”

He shrugs, “I mean, I’m also not a fan of being tortured for information. And I think we can agree that You Know Who would definitely not be particularly lenient if he knew the company I’m keeping.”

“So, what? You’re going to wipe their memories?” I can’t help but think of Lockhart, permanently damaged by his own memory charm, and that Draco is drunk enough for his spells to miss their mark.

“Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing,” He assures me, “I can replace their memories of the last few minutes with something mundane and boring; they won’t notice that anything’s wrong.” I decide to trust him, knowing that he’s always been better at spells than me, and watch as he narrows his eyes in concentration, muttering the spell under his breath, the dark alley glowing with the pale light of his wand. “C’mon,” He stands up, a little unbalanced, “Let’s get out of here.”

He grabs my arm and pulls me down another side street, lit by the fluorescent glow of small fast-food place, and he doesn’t look at me. I wonder if he knows that when he walks he’s half stumbling, barely walking in a straight line.

We hear someone shout out in alarm; they must have heard the screaming, found the three unconscious bodies. Draco swears, and hastily Disapparates, still holding onto my arm. But even as we spin I can feel that his balance is off, and it feels like we’re torn through the space, before being thrown into an empty car park.

And Draco collapses, his face drained of color.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, a little hesitantly. We just can’t seem to get a moment’s peace this evening. “Did you get splinched?”

Draco glares at me, “I don’t know. Whatever gave you that idea, Potter?”

“Just…” I run my fingers through my hair, glaring back at him, “Is it bad?”

He rolls his eyes and tries to take of his jacket, wincing, “It’s my arm.”

“You want some help?”

“No, it’s fine.”

“This is why you shouldn’t Disapperate when you’re drunk,” I point out, sitting down next to him, and reaching out to help him with his jacket.

“’Drunk’ is an exaggeration,” I raise my eyebrows but don’t say anything as he reluctantly lets me slip his jacket from his injured arm, revealing his blood stained shirt underneath.

“That doesn’t look good,” Malfoy comments, gazing disapprovingly at his sleeve, “It’s going to take far too much effort to get all that blood out.”

I sigh, “You don’t happen to have any Dittany with you?” He gives me the sort of look that makes me feel like a complete idiot, “Oh, well. Never mind.”

“You’re over-reacting. It only looks bad because of all the blood.”

“What do you want me to do? Take your shirt off?” Well, that wasn’t how I had planned that question. Also, not exactly the circumstances in which I’d been hoping to undress him. He smirks at me, amused, and I feel myself blush.

“That would seem like the logical thing to do.”

“Shut up.”

“You were the one who suggested it,” He says with a slight grin, but when he moves his arm slightly, his face twists in a brief flash of pain, “Okay I think I might be dying.”

“Now who’s over-reacting…” I mutter, and reach out to unbutton his shirt, trying not to make it too obvious that my fingers are shaking. And my hands brush against his chest, and I think of how there was a time when I knew every curve and stretch of Ginny’s body, and feel that burst of longing to run my hands over Draco until I have memorized how he feels beneath my touch, until every hollow and firmness of muscle are more familiar than my own. And it’s this intimacy, this strange carefulness, the almost touching, that fills me with the strongest pull towards him, when our eyes meet and I stop, one hand on his collar, the other resting gently on his stomach, and it’s as though his gaze is all that tethers me to this world.

He clears his throat, looks away, and I too tear my eyes from him, and ease his shirt from his splinched arm, and his blood stains my fingertips, and I hear his sharp intake of breath as the fabric pulls away from the wound.

“Oh God, it looks awful. Almost definitely fatal,” He says quietly, a strange tightness to his voice, “I think you might have to remove the whole arm.”

“I’m afraid you might be right,” I say very seriously, “I mean, look at it. That cut must be nearly three inches long. I do hope that you’re left handed.” I know that he’s right handed, I have watched him enough in class to know that.

“Unfortunately, no. I suppose I will no longer be able to write my love letters to you,” Draco looks up at me, a smirk playing at his lips and sparkling in his eyes, in a way that perhaps only being a little drunk brings out.

“Well I am devastated,” I say, thinking briefly of the absurdity of the idea, of receiving folded parchment filled with Draco’s slanted handwriting, of keeping each of them in a box under my bed, “And whatever will your mother think of her mutilated son?”

“Perhaps she will disown me. Break off my engagement with Astoria, to spare the family of the shame.”

“At least that would save me the effort of sabotaging your wedding.”

“Oh,” Malfoy raises his eyebrows, “But I was so looking forward to you barging into the chapel during the service, loudly professing your desire to run away with me.”

I grin at him, then turn my gaze back to his arm. It’s not nearly as badly hurt as Ron’s was, all those years ago, but it’s still deep and painful and he’s losing blood. “I know somewhere we can go. A safe house. They’ll have supplies and stuff, for your arm.”

Draco purses his lips, “I don’t think I’d be very welcome there.”

“Maybe not. But I can vouch for you.” He nods, clumsily tugging his shirt back on, leaving the buttons undone, and standing, a little unsteadily. A thought flashes through my mind, that if I’m not home by tomorrow Ron and Hermione will worry, but it doesn’t really concern me all that much. “ _I’ll_ Disapperate this time,” I say to Draco, clasping his bloodstained hand in mine, and I turn on the spot, thinking of a dingy building the other side of the city, where we might be safe.

 

Since Voldemort came to power, the places where those who oppose him can be safe have gradually been destroyed, or found, or become too inconvenient. People have sold out their hiding places for money, or mercy, others have been followed and tracked, forced to reveal the buildings where friends are kept safe. But still there are pockets of well-defended resistance, some of them more official than others. And some, like this old, cheap, hotel in an area where no one would want to stay in a hotel, are simply there for those who need to get away from the running for a few nights.

The Fairlope Inn’s existence is know only to a few, and requests are made if someone knows a friend who could use a place to stay, and it must have one of the most complicated system of defensive spells I’ve ever come across.

“This looks cozy,” Draco says.

“It’s safe. That’s what’s important.”

“Right,” He looks a little worryingly up at the grimy hotel front, with the peeling paint and lacey curtains.

“Oh, honestly, no one’s going to kill you the second you walk through the door,” I assure him, “Though I must admit that would solve a lot of problems.”

“You just keep trying to convince yourself that you don’t care about me, some day it’ll be convincing.”

I roll my eyes and lead him through the invisible barrier, and up to the front door. I’ve only stayed here twice before, the first was when Ginny died and I couldn’t be around her family, so convinced that they blamed me, and the second was when I first returned to Britain a few months ago, trying to work out where I should go next. And this time, I show up with a known Death Eater, praying that no one will be so concerned that they feel the need to inform Ron and Hermione.

The door opens when I press my palm to it, swinging to reveal an interior that, although not particularly fancy, is tidy and clean and welcoming.

“Good evening Potter,” Professor McGonagall says without a hint of surprise, looking up from her paperwork at the front desk, as though she’d been expecting me.

I feel Draco freeze in shock, and then his hand pulls away from mine and he makes an effort not to look directly at our old teacher.

“Hey,” I say, walking up to shake her hand, “Do you have a spare room, Professor?” I admit that there was no way she could have heard that without suspecting there was something between Draco and me.

She raises her eyebrows, looking between Draco and me. “A few,” She says, “Not so many people stay here these days. Either they’re all joining the fight, or running to You Know Who.”

“People aren’t that enthusiastic about defying him, not when it looks like the war is already lost.”  
“I hope you don’t agree with them, Potter,” McGonagall fixes me with a disapproving stare, and I feel like squirming, pinned beneath her gaze.

“No, of course not,” I say quickly, and Draco barks a quiet laugh, much to my annoyance.

McGonagall turns her head to Draco, her expression unreadable, “What happened to you, Mr Malfoy?” She says, looking at his bloodstained shirt, still unbuttoned.

I can see he looks uncomfortable here, wasn’t expecting anyone to actually _know_ him, much less to not shout at him. “I got splinched,” He shrugs, still not meeting her eyes.

“Well then,” She stands up, indicating that we should follow her into the room behind her desk, “I suppose you want my help to fix you up.” She gives him a small dose of the Dittany, though there isn’t much left and I know that it’s hard to come by when we you’re living outside the law, and bandages to wrap around the healing wound, even finds a clean shirt for him after a few failed attempts to remove all the blood from his old one.

“I’m going to make some tea,” McGonagall says, “Come and help me Potter?” It sounds rather like an order, so I go with her into a little kitchen, sensing that she’s going to have one of those serious conversations with me.

She doesn’t say anything for a few moments, waving her wand absentmindedly as she potters around the space, but eventually she turns to me, and I see for the first time how tired she looks, how weary. She doesn’t run this place by herself, there are still a few who want to help, but no longer feel like their place is on the battlefield. Brilliant witch or not, I think Professor McGonagall has always felt more comfortable when she’s caring for those who need it, giving a home and a safe place to those who feel a little lost.

“I don’t want you to feel like I’m intruding,” She begins, and I fidget with my sleeve, “But I must say that it’s a little surprising to see the two of you…”

“Yeah. Well, things have been weird recently,” I explain pathetically, “And, erm…” This is _not_ what I want to be talking about with an old school teacher, “I guess we aren’t as different as I thought.”

“Do you trust him?”

“I don’t know,” I say, “I think I would _like_ to.”

She passes me a mug of tea and a kind smile, “Be careful, alright?”

 “You know me Professor, I’m always careful.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POV Draco
> 
> Maybe neither of us understands what this is.  
> In the beginning, I told myself that all he was doing was trying to get more information from me, to trick me into thinking I could trust him. Maybe that’s still the case, but the vulnerable emotion in his eyes when he asks if I care for him is too genuine to be a lie. At least that’s what I tell myself. In truth, I think maybe I need this to be real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for vague homophobia and implied alcohol abuse.

“Why didn’t you tell me it was _her_?” I ask, sitting carefully down on the plain blue duvet- I wonder whether it was deliberate, this room with only one bed- and fix Potter with a glare that I hope reflects how pissed off I am. “I wasn’t really in the mood to have someone- I know what people think of me, okay Potter? You could have warned me…”

“I _didn’t_ know she’d be here,” He protests, “Not for certain. I mean, people alternate shifts… Sorry, I didn’t think it would matter.” But the apology sounds more sarcastic than genuine.

I sigh, wondering if there’s any way I can make him understand. My thoughts feel a little blurry, scattering away from me, and I don’t know whether it’s still the remnants of an afternoon spent in a Muggle bar, or the tumult of emotions that have kept hitting me over the last few hours, but I’m struggling to find the words to talk to him. “Look at me, Harry,” I say eventually, my voice dull and quiet, “Do you think I’m the sort of person who enjoys running into old teachers? After everything I’ve done?”  
“Yeah,” Potter shoves his hands into his pockets, looking at his feet, “But you’re trying to… to change, to fight for us-”

I can’t help but smirk at that, spitting out my words, “I don’t give a fucking damn about your _crusade_ okay? I thought I’d made that clear, I’m just trying to make sure that I’m- I don’t know, keeping my options open? I’m _trying_ to stay alive, it’s nothing more than that. Stop thinking that this is some sort of redemption, that I’m ‘changing my ways’ or whatever it is you tell yourself when you sneak out to… _kiss_ me and tell me all your problems. You seem to think I’m a lot more noble than I actually am.”

“You know what, I really don’t,” Harry snaps, and for a moment that fury passes across his face, as it did earlier when he attacked that guy- Albert? I think that was his name- and I suppose I should be a little afraid of him, because I know he could easily lose control again. But I trust him, despite the loathing in his gaze. “For fuck’s sake- Sometimes when we’re talking I think that _maybe_ you understand, that you’ve changed but… You’re pathetic.”

I don’t respond, because he’s right, I am pathetic. I’m a coward, and I’m only here because I can’t stay away from Harry, because my mind is a mess and even though I can’t quite describe what _this_ is, it’s better than the numb blur of the rest of my life. But I don’t care about saving the world, and I hate that he keeps forgetting that, keeps thinking that I might actually be doing something gallant here. I stare at the wall, at the bland cream wallpaper and the bad painting of a country road, the grass swaying in a gentle summer breeze. Distantly, I’m aware of the sounds of traffic outside, a police siren, someone yelling drunkenly. I feel this overwhelming sense of isolation, like I’m so far apart from the rest of the world, that everything else keeps turning and moving forward, whilst I’m stuck here, knowing that I deserve any insult he throws at me, and yet still feeling like I’m drowning.

“You don’t even care, do you?” Harry asks, like it’s some big realization, as though he hasn’t known it all along.

“About what? _Your_ _war?_ Well I really hate to break it to you, but I don’t actually give a shit about helping all the Muggles and-”

“About me!” He shouts suddenly, and at first I don’t really register what he’s said, but his words sounding like they’ve ripped from his chest, “I don’t fucking- I don’t understand you Malfoy. I thought I did. But… I don’t know what benefit you could possibly get from _this!_ AndI actually started wondering…”

 “Yeah?”

“That you might-” He sighs loudly, irritably, and turns away, running his hands exasperatedly through his hair, “It doesn’t matter.” His anger burns fast and bright, sets everything aflame in just a matter of seconds, where previously there was only calm. I think that sometimes being around Harry is like standing too close to a bonfire, to fear getting devoured by the flame, to feel its heat on my face as though I’m already burning. Or maybe he’s like fireworks, only silence and black one moment, and then a sudden burst of light and noise and I’m always too in awe to look away, to take a step back, even when the showers of sparks turn to meteors.

 “I’m not actually giving you any information,” I say, tempting his anger with my own calm indifference, “I’m trying, but I can’t find anything that would help you. So why bother to even meet with me?”

“You know why,” Harry says simply, and he’s right. I know that he longs to talk to someone who doesn’t look at him as though he’s fragile and broken, afraid that one wrong move could shatter him. And sometimes I think- I _hope-_ there might be something else, something beyond just wanting to be close to _someone,_ to feel _something._ But I also know there’s a difference between him liking my company, and genuinely liking _me-_ a part of me wonders, as it often has recently, why this has suddenly become so important to me. If he does _like_ me then it will only complicate this more. After all, I can’t even pick apart my thoughts enough to know why I keep finding my way to him, to know whether it’s real, or just me clinging to anything that isn’t the grey haze of the rest of my life.

Maybe neither of us understands what this is.

In the beginning, I told myself that all he was doing was trying to get more information from me, to trick me into thinking I could trust him. Maybe that’s still the case, but the vulnerable emotion in his eyes when he asks if I care for him is too genuine to be a lie. At least that’s what I tell myself. In truth, I think maybe I need this to be real.

“Harry,” I begin, and unsure where this sentence is going, terrified of saying something that would shatter all there is between us- and even more terrified of building myself up to be someone I’m not, “I’m not a hero. If that’s what you want from me…”

“Shut up. I know that. You’ve said it enough times.”

“Well I just-”

“You can’t even decide which side you’re on.”

“I’m trying, okay?” I say, my voice rising, “I’m not the hero, but that doesn’t mean I want to be the villain. I _want_ to help you, but I _can’t_ risk my mother’s life by openly fighting for you! Do you know how hard my family worked to get us back here, respected by the Wizarding community, not constantly living in fear that You Know Who would decide he didn’t need us anymore? I’m not going to throw away the life that we have now, that my mother- there’s too much to risk. And it’s not like… C’mon, it makes no difference to me if Muggles and Mudbl- Muggleborns are saved or…” Harry glares at me, “Not.”  
The way he looks at me breaks my heart a little, his anger falling away and leaving only a dim disappointment, “Fine,” He says waving his hand dismissively, “Maybe you should go then.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Leave, if you don’t actually want to help.”

“Harry,” I stand up, hearing the plea in my voice and not knowing what I can possibly say to make him understand. But there’s nothing. “Okay.” Maybe if he weren’t such an idiot he would know that I’m here because I want to see _him-_ and at least a small part of me is aware of how ridiculous this is, that contempt can so easily shift to something else, to longing and… _caring_ when his eyes fill with hate.  Maybe it’s for the best if I just walk out today, leave this all behind, and go back to a life where there are nothing but certainties. I know that I could sell him out, tell the Dark Lord where he is, and end this once and for all. It wouldn’t be difficult.

I smirk to myself, thinking distantly of Voldemort’s obliviousness to the information I have, that I have the ability to completely shatter the resistance, and yet I know that I _won’t._

“Do you remember that night you and your friends were caught by Snatchers?” I say quietly, carefully, a little wary of his clenched fists and the coldness in his gaze, “And everyone asked if it was you, and you _knew_ that I recognized you, but I didn’t say anything. Even though I was _certain,_ even though I don’t think there was any way that I wouldn’t know your face.”

“If you’re trying to guilt trip me or something…” Harry says, but his shoulders have relaxed, and his eyes seem more sad than angry.

“Why would I do that, Potter? Does that seem like me? I just wanted you to remember that I might not actually believe in your cause, but I still… I don’t want you to die.” I want to tell him that I sometimes feel like we’re tied together, that whatever way our paths take us, neither can really exist without the other. Perhaps the universe needs these reflections, these distorted opposites to balance out the scales, and sometimes I imagine us tied together by string, and we could travel far apart but still not be able to entirely escape each other.

“Wow, thanks,” Harry mutters, then narrows his eyes, “Except you didn’t seem to care about my life when you burned down the room of requirement.”

“That’s… A technicality,” I say, “But, Harry, as much as it really pains me to admit it, I do sort of,” I pause and look away, “ _Like_ you. And you might not be able to trust that I am brave or noble or righteous, but you can trust that I, well…” But the words fail me, and I wish I was better at this, at saying what I think. Harry looks at me expectantly, and I meet his gaze, marveling at how I might have noticed his eyes before, seen them but not acknowledged them, had never really realized that they betray every emotion, that they’re the color of grass and leaves on early summer days.

“I know,” He says eventually, “Yeah, I know.” It comes as such a relief that he understands all that I want to say, but don’t know how, that I stumble over my words and my feelings get caught in my throat, and still he sees the confessions I don’t seem to have the strength, the breath, to speak. And I perhaps I feel the same when I look at him, because I think maybe I’ve always seen more of what he feels than he knows.

When he attacked the man in the alley, barely more than an hour ago, something left his eyes, that spark that I have grown to recognize as distinctly _him,_ and there was a moment when I feared he might be lost completely.

I wish that didn’t frighten me; I hate how much I have come to rely on his wellbeing.

“Harry,” I say, “I know that it wasn’t you, back there, when you lost control,” He winces slightly at my blunt phrasing, but I try to ignore it, “ _He’s_ in your head, anyone can see that. You would never do something like that if you were in your right mind- you’re too bloody _honorable_.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Sometimes it is,” I say, attempting to sound lighthearted and failing a little, “Look where being honorable and good has gotten you.” He’s spent so many years running and fighting and hiding, losing friends and family at every step, and I honestly don’t know how he’s still standing.

“I’m not though,” Harry says, “Good, honorable, _righteous._ I’m like him, You Know Who. And the longer I have to do this, the more I can feel myself turning into him.”

“That’s rubbish,” I snap, and step forwards to take his hand, lacing our fingers together, feeling the warmth of his palm against mine, “You’re being an idiot.”

“You saw what I did-”

“You Know Who has influence over you, I don’t understand how, but he does. Still,” I lift our hands so that they rest over his chest, his heart, “If you were more _him_ than _you,_ you would have killed them all.”

“I only stopped because of you.”

I can’t help but smile at the clear honesty of his words, that he admits this without hesitation, like it’s obvious. “But you _did_ stop.”

“One day I won’t,” Harry says, his voice taking on a confessional tone. “One day no one will be there to stop me. What if-”

“Okay. Stop being so melodramatic,” I pull my hand away, suddenly irritated.

“What?”

“You have good friends, you always have, if you reach out to them then they _will_ help. You’re not doing yourself any favors by acting like you’re completely alone.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Yes it was,” I sigh exasperatedly, “You keep coming back with this insistence that everything is terrible, that no one understands, when you’re the one who keeps pushing away the people who care about you,” I can feel my voice getting louder, angrier, “Is that why you like seeing me? Because I’m not tired of your bullshit yet?”

“Draco…” His hand reaches out to me slightly, before falling to his side, and he shakes his head, defeated.

“You were right. I should go,” I push past him, heading towards the door. He can’t even argue, because he was the one who suggested it in the first place. He’s so fucking full of himself, so determined that everyone should pity him, so desperate to always be the centre of attention, so wrapped up in his own problems that he doesn’t notice how ridiculous he sounds.

“Fine, be an arse about it. I expected nothing less.” I can feel him taunting me, expecting me to lash out, or to take back what I said, grasping for a reaction.

I fall for it.

“Of course, because you’re so much better than me. The great Harry Potter-”

“That’s not what I think, and you know it!”

“What the fuck are you even doing here, Potter? With me? Because I still can’t actually figure it out!” I don’t know where the words come from, just that I want to snap at him, to stop pretending this is all normal, to tear apart this ridiculous charade where I pretend I’m good enough for him.

And there it is, that thought coming to me with a shocking clarity. We both know he deserves so much better than me, that no matter how flawed he is, Harry is still a hero, a good man trying to save everyone- even when he fails time and time again- and refusing to give up.

It infuriates me, that he simultaneously makes himself out to be this tragic martyr, as well as somehow corrupted and evil; that he pushes everyone away and then mopes about how alone he is; that sometimes he still looks at me like I’m nothing.

Harry steps towards me and kisses me, and it takes me so much by surprise- it always makes me forget everything else, every time- that for a moment I let him, let myself believe that we can make it work.

But I push him away.

“That doesn’t count as an explanation,” I mutter, my hand resting on his chest, trying to avoid his crestfallen expression.

“Why do you need one?”

“Because I really don’t like wasting my time,” I say, “Sure, sometimes you act like you want to be around me, but I’m not always certain that you really know what that means. So, just give me a few days to work some things out, about us- maybe you should do the same. If I still want to see you, then I’ll be at the restaurant next Thursday. But… I don’t know,” I take a few steps back and turn away, knowing that if I look back I’ll stay, “I guess I’ll see you around.” 

 

I storm out of the building, my mind barely registering what I’m doing as I hurry down the steps and through the front door, ignoring McGonagall sat at the desk. When I stand in the night I breathe heavily, filling my lungs with the cold, polluted air, my mind reeling.

Now that I’m outside, the words I spat in anger seem ridiculous, the emotions that came upon me almost without warning are now fading, and I’m left only with the suffocating realization that I’ve ruined it all.

It’s not like I can go back inside, not now, not after what I said.

No matter how much I long to be with him again, to forget what we both said, I’m too proud to risk having to apologize.

Funny, I think, reaching into my pocket for a cigarette, that after all the detestable things I’ve done to survive, I still have my pride. Yeah, I hold the cigarette between my teeth and light it, that’s really fucking funny.

Merlin, how did I end up here? Infatuated with Harry Potter, what a fucking joke. Even more insane is that there is at least a small part of me that wonders whether I should just throw everything else away, run back up the stairs and not give a shit about my pride, just to be with him.

I take a drag from my cigarette, “Shit, Draco,” I mutter out loud to myself, watching the pale smoke escape my lips as I speak, “How drunk are you?” Realistically, I know that I’ve mostly sobered up by now, but I can still feel the edges of my mind effected by alcohol, struggling to focus on anything besides this mess that I’m in. I stand in silence for a few minutes, unable to stop my thoughts circling around what I said, what he said, fueling that pit of anger in my stomach. Smoking helps a little. I smirk bitterly, dropping my cigarette and crushing it underfoot. “I’m so screwed.”

When I take a step forwards, deciding to leave, I hear someone clear their throat. For a fleeting moment I wonder if it’s Harry, before I realize that the voice belongs to a woman.

“Malfoy?”

I turn, slowly, irritated, to look at McGonagall, “ _What?”_

Her hands are held behind her, hair tied in the same tight bun that it always has been, though her robes are threadbare and there are noticeably more wrinkles around her eyes. “I thought you would be staying.”

“Yeah, well, change of plan,” I say, not interested in having a conversation.

McGonagall steps forwards, and she seems sad, though it’s always difficult to tell past her uptight demeanor, “You know, Dumbledore,” I bark a brief laugh at the mention of him, but she ignores me, “Always insisted that you had the potential to be a good man. I never believed him.”

“You were right to think that,” I say dully.

“No, I don’t think so. If Potter trusts you-”

“He doesn’t.”

“Yes he does. It’s very clear that he has faith in you, though I’m not sure if I trust his judgment,” She pauses, like she’s waiting for me to say something. When I stay silent, she continues, “Draco, if you plan on breaking his heart, you’ll have me to reckon with.”

“It’s really not like that-”

She rolls her eyes, “I’m not blind.”

I push my hands into my pockets and look at my feet, “I think I’ve fuc- sorry- _messed_ it all up. So it doesn’t matter now.”

“Nonsense,” She insists, “It’s not as though he holds you on a pedestal, blind to your faults. Neither of you are perfect, and I can’t remember a time when the two of you didn’t seek out an argument at every turn. But that doesn’t mean anything- you can disagree and call him out when he isn’t thinking, and listen when he reminds you how you can actually do some good, and still care about each other. That’s how relationships work,” I can’t help but cringe at the word, “Yes, Malfoy, deny it or not, but this _is_ a relationship. Help each other to grow, and remember that you’ve both been through difficult times, that no matter how hard he tries to be a good man, he is also _human._ ”

I let her words sink in, amazed by how unsurprised she seems that the two of us are, well, together. It makes me wonder how long we have had the potential to be something more, that maybe if we had been less blind, we wouldn’t have wasted all these years apart.

“I should,” I rub at my forehead, trying to think clearly, “Umm… I need to, just, I think I’m gonna walk for a bit. It’s all…”

She reaches out hesitantly and squeezes my shoulder. I don’t pull away. “You’ll come back, won’t you Draco?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” She nods, pulling her hand away. I purse my lips and turn around, walking off into the night.

 

I end up in a bar again, where I don’t really notice the passing of the hours, slowly sipping at a pint of beer- a Muggle drink. I don’t like it- and I think about how easy it would be if I could just fall in love with Astoria like my mother wants me to.

 

_“Draco, honestly! Don’t you see how ridiculous you’re being!” Narcissa stood up, glass in one hand, her hair falling out of the style she had spent so long on that morning, in preparation for lunch with the Greengrass family. One careless comment from me after they’d left, and suddenly my mother and I were fighting._

_“I’ve explained this to you-” I said wearily, resting my chin in my hands._

_“Yes, I know,” She waved her free hand in dismissal, “You don’t have to keep telling me.”_

_“I only have to keep telling you because you’re not_ listening _to me. You’re just so caught up in the family reputation that you’d rather I was miserable than anyone knowing that-”_

_“Enough. Do you realize what people will think of you?”_

_“Maybe I don’t care,” I picked up my own glass, raising my eyebrows at her and trying not to smirk at her exasperated expression. We’ve had this conversation so many times, and whilst I grow less interested, she just becomes more disappointed and annoyed, like me being gay is my way of ruining her life._

_“Well you should!” I could hear her voice rising in volume, so close to turning into shouting, “Do you know what your father and I have done to get you this life? All we ever cared about was ensuring that_ you _would never want for anything! And then you throw it all back in our faces!”_

_I narrow my eyes at her, “That really wasn’t my intention, mum.”_

_“You’re meeting with Astoria tomorrow for afternoon tea. And you’re going to enjoy it.”_

Astoria’s alright, really, even I have to admit that. She’s just a bit pretentious, and rarely seems to let her actual emotions show. But she’s not cruel, and despite all she has to gain from our ‘union,’ she never strikes me as overly ambitious.

But I can’t marry her; it wouldn’t be fair.

Even if mother threatens to disown me, I’m not going to go through with this; it’s insane.

And with Harry… It would be even more impossible to try and meet with him.

Fuck this.

I leave my drink half finished on the table and leave the bar, not yet sure of where I’m going.

 

In the end, I go home. He’s probably left now anyway, and I can’t spend the night going all over the country looking for him. And even if he was still at the Inn, he’d hardly be happy to see me, would probably just send me away again.

Besides, I can hardly give him the satisfaction of returning just a few hours after storming out. I’d never live that down.

And even though I don’t really want to lose him, I’m still pissed at him. I’m angry that he deluded himself into thinking that I’m a hero, then got mad when he came to the realization that he was wrong, blaming me for his poor assessment of my character, lecturing me for not ‘picking a side.’ He always thinks his life is more difficult, more complicated and traumatic, than anyone else’s, and I honestly don’t know how Granger and Weasley have lasted this long dealing with that bullshit.

My mother is asleep on our sofa when I reach our house, closing the door quietly behind me. There’s an empty glass on the floor next to her.

I sigh, and wave my wand to retrieve a blanket from a cupboard upstairs. The house is quiet, cold.

“Master Malfoy?” One of our house elves whispers, creeping out of the shadows as I tuck the large blanket over my mother. I raise my eyebrows, inviting it to continue. “Mistress was worried you would not come home.”

“Well I’m back now,” I say, not having the energy to snap at it, “You’ll tell her? When she wakes up? Say that I got home late and went to bed.”

“Of course, Master Malfoy,” The elf speaks with its head bowed, not looking me in the eye. “Would you like a cup of tea before you go to bed?”

“No, that will be all,” I look down at my mother, her hair is a mess, her makeup smudged, and she’s still dressed in the robes she wore for lunch, “How much did she drink?”

The elf squeaks nervously, “Please, Master Draco, we said that she should not have so much, because it makes her sad, but she would not listen. It is not our fault, sir.”

I shake my head, uncomfortable with its terrified tone of voice, “I’m not blaming you.” My hand lingers a little over my mother, and I wish I could be a little more like the son she deserves to have, before I make my way back upstairs, and exhaustion finally clouds my thoughts.

 

“You seem distracted, Draco,” Astoria comments at tea the following day, her pale blonde hair loose over her shoulders, wearing a light blue dress that looks more like something a Muggle would wear- though I don’t mention that. I did tell her she looks pretty though; she suits it much better than the ridiculous dress she wore to lunch yesterday.

We’re sat in the conservatory at the Greengrass country home, but other than their house elves there’s no one else around.

“Sorry,” There’s something different about her today, maybe it’s being away from our parents, but the way she looks at me, like she’s taking me seriously, makes me want to be honest with her, “I had a really bad fight with my mum after you left,” I pause, aware that I’m not really sure how she feels about our ‘relationship,’ “Concerning me and you.”

Astoria smiles gently, reaching across the table to take my hand, “My father and I had what I imagine was a very similar argument, last week.”

I doubt that.

“Apparently they have our best interests at heart.”

Astoria snorts, and I have never liked her more than in that moment, “ _Their_ best interests at heart, I think,” She pulls her hand from mine, and breaks off a mouthful of cake, chewing thoughtfully, “Not that there’s anything wrong with you, Draco, I’m sure you’re quite the catch. But…” She pauses, like it’s deliberately for dramatic effect, and has another mouthful of cake. I haven’t touched my own. I don’t have any appetite today. “Can you keep a secret?”

I furrow my eyebrows, “Of course I can.”

She moves her hand to her chest melodramatically, “My heart belongs to another! But my father does not approve of our love!”

I can’t help but laugh, and she giggles too, but I see that sad cynicism in her eyes that I am all too used to feeling myself. I much prefer when she’s like this, without all those trained mannerisms that never quite seem natural. Maybe this is the Astoria that her love sees.

“I’m sorry you can’t be with them,” I say after a few seconds, taking a sip of my tea, “It’s not fair for you to be stuck with me, when there’s someone you _really_ love.”

She shrugs and looks at her hands, “He’s a Muggle, Draco. He means more to me than I can say, but if anyone knows about us, our lives would be in danger. The Dark Lord is hardly going to let the daughter of the French Minister marry a Muggle.” There’s a warning edge to her voice, and I’m aware that she’s said this not only to convey the tragedy of her situation, but also to remind me of the importance of keeping her secret.

“Fuck. I… That’s just…”

“Yep,” She says sadly, then smiles past it and eats the remainder of her cake, seeming to focus all her energy on her enjoyment of the chocolate icing. And I drink my tea, knowing there’s nothing that I can do.

We sit quietly, both of us lost in our own thoughts, our worries and secrets and the lies we have to tell.  
“I’m gay,” I say, hearing my voice as though through water, flicking my eyes up to gauge her reaction.

She wipes her chocolate stained fingers on her skirt, then notices her mistake, frowning at the marks she’s now left on her dress. Grabbing a napkin from the table- one of those expensive linen ones- she rubs the rest of the chocolate from her hands, and the corner of her mouth. “Does your mother know?” Astoria asks, a little cautiously.

“Yeah, but she keeps trying to forget it.”

“Wow. That’s really shitty of her,” She comments matter-of-factly. 

“Uhuh.”

Astoria raises her teacup like she’s making a toast, and I copy her, feeling myself start to smile, “Here’s to our messed up lives.”

“And over controlling parents,” I add, tapping my cup against hers. She beams, a genuine, amused smile, and I feel so content in her company that, for just a few moments, I don’t think about Harry.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POV Harry
> 
> “I suppose not. Do you ever…” Draco says, frowning and speaking as though the words are difficult, “Do you wonder whether, if a few things had been different, we might have been friends? Fuck. Sorry. That was so clichéd.”  
> “No, it’s fine,” I say, thinking over his question, “Things would have had to be a lot different for that, I think.”  
> He laughs, shoulder brushing against mine. And I start to imagine, would it have changed much, if he had been less of a brat, or perhaps if I had been sorted into Slytherin instead of Gryfindor, and we’d ended up more friends than enemies? Would he have told me when Voldemort was blackmailing him to kill Dumbledore? Would he have been on my side, in the end?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a fairly vague description of a sex scene in this chapter, but it's mostly just implied because I'm not super comfortable with writing smut. Sorry it's been so long since the last chapter, I'm going to really try and make them more regular now, because I honestly just want to get this story finished- I've been working on it forever seriously. As always, comments and kudos super welcome. Slightly longer chapter than usual to make up for being terrible at updating.  
> The song mentioned at the end is November Rain by Guns N' Roses- it's literally such a perfect drarry song and it's on my 8tracks playlist (link to that is in the end notes, I think)

I don’t like keeping secrets from my friends. The longer they’re hidden, the greater the chance of it all blowing up when the deception and lies crumble around me. Yet still I fear their reaction, the way they’d look at me, that our friendship may ravel and fall apart more than it already has. So when I get home, hazy with an exhaustion that is all too familiar to me, realizing in the morning light that waiting for Malfoy was ridiculous, I say nothing. I tell them again that I needed space, lie and explain that I can hardly remember where I went, just that I was walking around unknown streets until my thoughts came back to me.

I wish they weren’t so desperate to believe the lie.

Dean returns from London with news that Voldemort is back in the city, that preparations to elect a new minister are underway, and the even less savory announcement that another Muggleborn and her family have been killed.

Still, after all these years, Muggle deaths shake him up. And I hear him say to Seamus that he hasn’t heard from his parents in months, that he’s terrified of finding that they’d been killed as well.

“And it would be my fault.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Seamus squeezes his hand, and his assurance is almost convincing. At some point over the past few years they started dating, or perhaps they always have been and we only just noticed, but once we realized they were sharing a bed (not just to keep each other company through the nightmares, as Ron had suggested) and casual kisses were exchanged too regularly to miss, we got the hint. Even if Ginny had to spell it out to some people- laughing and telling me it was a marvel that I’d managed to find the Chamber of Secrets yet was oblivious to me when two of my friends were, to quote, ‘sickeningly in love.’

Strange, how everyone’s lives continue, even as mine spirals out of control. I shouldn’t find it surprising, because of course their stories would go on without me, and I wish Ginny was here to tell me to stop being a prick.

That being said, Hermione would probably also be willing to call me out on my shit.

It’s one of those rare nights that we never really plan, yet we end up all in one place, tucked up around each other. Seamus retrieves a pack of Exploding Snap, and some of us sit around on the rug and we can almost imagine that we’re back in our dorm room at Hogwarts. Except Neville is better than he was then, and Luna leans over my shoulder offering advice that sometimes I follow just because it’s rare to see that smile that is so very _Luna._ George hands out sweets that produce vivid but beautiful hallucinations- which I decline, as I’ve seen far too many thoughts that aren’t my own to take any pleasure in them- and others that make you breathe fire, or hover a few inches off the ground for a couple of minutes, and Hermione rolls her eyes but doesn’t comment when Angelina points out that the rug is burning.

Those we’ve befriended since leaving school have always felt out of place on nights like this, and usually they make an excuse to be somewhere else. There’s a sacredness to the familiarity of this scene, these faces, voices that I would recognize anywhere.

But it’s lonely too, when Hermione relaxes into Ron as he pulls her towards him, and George absentmindedly brushes his hands through Angelina’s hair, Dean kisses Seamus’ cheek when he sits down next to him, and recently Luna has been draping herself over Neville as though she doesn’t even think about it.

I rub at my forehead, trying to chase away a headache.

It grows dark, and at some point the games stop, the conversation growing gloomier, more serious. We can’t ever really escape this reality, even for a few hours, as much as we’d like to.

“If You-Know-Who’s back in London, then something’s changed. He must be worried,” Seamus says. His voice is as scared as it is hopeful; we can never tell whether these shifts in our world mean good or bad news, until it’s too late.

George grins a little, “Scared of us, you think?”

“That’d make a nice change,” I ignore the pressure behind my skull, the pulsing reminder of all that a moment of weakness could result in, “Maybe he’s moving a Horcrux,” I add, even though I know for sure that this suggestion is more foolish optimism than ever actually believing in an opportunity like that. Looking at the doubtful faces around me, I can see they struggle to believe me. I sigh, and look down at my hands, “I might have an informant. I can ask them.”

“You have a _what?”_ Hermione’s eyebrows shoot up to her hairline, “Why didn’t you mention it before?”

“Because they normally don’t have anything of use to say,” Also I tend to forget to ask once I start kissing him. I don’t even know whether he’d still want to play the spy, not after he stormed out, claiming that he had to ‘think things through.’ I was an idiot, thinking I knew him at all.

“That’s where you’ve been disappearing to then,” Luna comments, idly placing a card in the middle even though she’s the only one still playing.

I try to picture Draco in this scene, how he would fit into this picture, how the rest of us would shift to find a space for him. How long would it take for people to stop hating him? Will there ever be a time when everything falls so neatly that there would be room for such a luxury? (It’s not a luxury, not really. Except imagining us without the troubles of secrecy and sides in a war, and desperately attempting to decide what it means to shift from hating to, well, whatever we are now, seems as close to luxury as I can dare to dream of.)

“Who is it then?”

“Hmm? Oh,” I didn’t think about this, “It’s not really safe for me to tell you. They’re putting their life at risk enough already.”

“How do we know we can trust them?” Ron asks.

“You could try trusting me,” I mutter, but the room’s so quiet that my words are clear, the coldness evident.

“That can be difficult sometimes, Harry,” Seamus says, his tone just as dark, also barely obscuring that temptation to fight. I’m always surprised that evenings like this rarely end in shouting, particularly when these moments are so common, us all so filled with frustration and fear, unable to find warmth when we speak out loud.

My fingers find the wedding ring that hangs from a chain around my neck, and as my fingers brush against it, the burning of my scar fades a little, if only for a second. “Let me just find out what they know. If there’s something we can use against You-Know-Who, then surely it has to be worth it.”

Neville meets my gaze, “And if it’s a trap?”

“It won’t be.” I pray that I’m right, as I always do.

 

When Thursday comes around, and I make my way to the restaurant, this time not having to sneak out or completely lie about where I’m going, Draco’s waiting for me outside.

“I’ve decided against dinner,” He says as a greeting, “I’ve spent far too much time this week with my mother’s friends to stand another evening surrounded by so many rich snobs.”

“You realize that you, too, are in fact a rich snob.”

Draco’s mouth twists into an amused smirk, “Doesn’t stop me being annoyed by the elite.”

We buy chips and eat them as we walk aimlessly along the river, both of us almost mentioning the last time we saw each other, but not entirely sure how to phrase it. Surely he isn’t expecting _me_ to apologize?

“I hear You-Know-Who’s back in London,” I say instead.

“Yeah,” Draco’s jaw clenches slightly, “He is. I suppose you want to know why?”

“That would be useful.”  
He exhales a half laugh through his nose, “Right. You haven’t given up on saving the world yet, then?”

“Hard to quit something like that when you’re me.”

“Guess so,” He finishes the last of the chips, and though it would probably be just as easy to vanish the polystyrene container with a quick spell, he walks a few paces to the nearest bin. He pauses for a few seconds before turning back to me, hands in his pockets. “Our alliance with the French Ministry is weakening, it might be something to do with that. The Minister is over here at the moment, going over policies.”

“But?”

Draco shakes his head, “Just a feeling. Everyone’s on edge, a few Death Eaters have disappeared and no one’s talking about it, I can tell there’s something going on that only a few people are involved with.”

“And you’re sure it’s separate from what’s going on with France?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Draco says.

“We’re hoping that he’s moving a Horcrux,” I admit, because keeping secrets is pointless.

“He might well be,” He replies without looking at me, “I’m not exactly close to him.”

“Can you find out?”

Draco narrows his eyes at me and takes a while to reply, “Probably. But if I die in the process…”

“I’ll send your mother some flowers.”

“Great. Thanks.”

“No problem,” I say, and we walk for a little while in silence. “I told my friends that I have an informant.”

He sighs deeply and half turns his head to look at me, “That was stupid-”

“It’s easier than trying to explain to them why I keep wandering off in the evening.”

“Maybe you should get better at lying.”

“I prefer not to keep secrets.”

“Well I prefer not to be killed by your friends- who hate me, by the way.” Yeah, like I need him to tell me that.

“To be honest, I kind of hate you as well,” I say, and there’s little truth in the words, as much as I’d like there to be, “I didn’t tell them your name, obviously. But if you learn anything useful, it’ll make more sense if I’ve already mentioned a spy.”

“I’m a spy now? Shit, I’m flattered,” He stops by a bench and sits down, and not for the first time, I wish I knew him well enough to decipher his expression. Sometimes I understand him, sure, but after spending so much time with friends I’ve known for years, it’s frustrating not being able to figure out what he’s thinking. If I was Voldemort, I think before I consider how vile the wistfulness of my thoughts is, I’d probably be able to find out. “Honestly though, Potter,” Malfoy says, “I’m not sure whether I’m ready to die for your cause.”

“Fine, don’t.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“By what?” I gesture exasperatedly, “I didn’t say anything.”

Malfoy shakes his head, “It was your tone of voice. All self righteous- superior.”

“You realize that literally everything you say is filled with superiority?”

“Do you realize how often you feel the need to remind me how much better you are than me?”

I stare at him, narrowing my eyes, “Are you actually being serious right now?” 

“All I’m saying is that…” He drags his hands over his face, and I wonder whether he has always looked this weary, or if it’s just that the more time we spend together, the more he allows me to see past his pretense. The smile he gives me is pained when he continues, “Okay, you think I’m a coward, I know that. And honestly, you’re mostly right.”

“Is that your whole point?”

“Piss off,” He says, without much feeling, “Is doing the right thing always hard?”

“Mostly, yeah,” And I can’t help but grin at him- everything is such a mess, and sometimes I remember how ridiculous this situation would have seemed just a few years ago, and honestly it is sort of funny, if also admittedly rather sad. “But you don’t do good things because they’re easy. You do them because you know it’s right, honorable, or because you’re trying to protect the people you love.”

“Protecting the people I love kind of goes against doing the honorable thing, I’m afraid.”

“I know.”

“So then, Harry,” Draco looks up at me, “Persuade me?”

“What?” He just raises his eyebrows in response, expectantly, “I’m not going to persuade you to risk your life, that’s your choice.”

“If this is your tactic, it’s rubbish.”

“Okay, you want me to- there are things worth fighting for, Draco. You want to protect your mother, I get that, but how many people do you think would also do anything to protect their family, and can’t because they don’t fully understand what’s going on? Muggles are being murdered and families being torn apart just because they have children with magic or are in the wrong place at the wrong time. And they can’t fight back, but you can…”

Draco waves his hand dismissively, “That’s sweet, Potter. Very sweet, though not exactly what I had in mind.” He smirks at me, and it’s only then that I notice the tone of his voice, the slight lowering of his volume, the hint of a temptation.

“Oh. Right. I mean…” And I feel myself blush, which is absurd and embarrassing, but something about Draco gets under my skin, unravels me.

“Potter, relax.” His expression is unguarded, his usual sneer falling away. He looks almost pensive- but even as I think it, I know that’s the wrong word. I sit down next to him on the bench, watching him out of the corner of my eye. “Of course I’ll help you. There wouldn’t be much point in showing up if I wasn’t going to.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

I think he might be lying, but I stay quiet.

A headache that I’ve mostly managed to ignore all evening begins to worsen, pain shooting through my forehead and I barely have time to pull up my defenses with a sharp gasp of pain, which I immediately regret when a flicker of concern flashes across Draco’s face.

“What is it?”

“Nothing, just…” I rub at my scar, though I know it does nothing to ease the discomfort, “It’s fine.”

A few moments pass before Draco says solemnly, “It seemed like it was getting better. Your scar, I mean.”

Honestly, I hadn’t really given it a lot of thought. But when I remember how I’d been when I came back to Britain, how much of Voldemort’s thoughts were bleeding into my own, I suppose it is better. It’s strange that Draco would notice, but the concern in his voice is even stranger. “Maybe he’s trying to trick me into thinking he’s given up.”

“Sure,” Draco says, unconvinced. Something, an image, bursts through into my mind for a moment, too fast for me to work it out, and I close my eyes, forcing myself to focus on keeping _him_ out of my thoughts. “Are you okay?” Draco asks, uncharacteristically worried and it’s unnerving.

“I said I’m fine.”

“Don’t be a fucking martyr about it.”

“I’m not- This is my life, okay? Headaches and visions and the fucking Dark Lord trying to invade my thoughts. Believe me, I’m used to it.”

“Still…” Draco says, “Was it like that at school?”

I stare at him in surprise, “Even before he came back, I’d get headaches if he was planning something, a few bad dreams that turned out to be pretty close to reality.”

“And after fourth year? When he came back?”

It’s bizarre, remembering a life when it was all relatively simple, when I still had the comfort of Hogwarts and some sense of safety. “More bad dreams. I saw Arthur Weasley being attacked, nearly killed. Sometimes when I was awake as well. Remember when Sirius Black died, that night in the Department of Mysteries?” Draco nods, and I know that he remembers it as the night that changed how the Ministry felt about my story, that it led to his father’s arrest. “I saw Sirius being tortured by You Know Who, rushed off to save him. And it was a lie- he wasn’t even there.”

A few moments of silence pass. “Do you know now, if something’s real?”

“Not always.”

“Shit. I didn’t know…”

“Of course you didn’t. Not like either of us cared about each other’s problems back then.”

“I suppose not. Do you ever…” Draco says, frowning and speaking as though the words are difficult, “Do you wonder whether, if a few things had been different, we might have been friends? Fuck. Sorry. That was so clichéd.”

“No, it’s fine,” I say, thinking over his question, “Things would have had to be a _lot_ different for that, I think.”

He laughs, shoulder brushing against mine. And I start to imagine, _would_ it have changed much, if he had been less of a brat, or perhaps if I had been sorted into Slytherin instead of Gryfindor, and we’d ended up more friends than enemies? Would he have told me when Voldemort was blackmailing him to kill Dumbledore? Would he have been on my side, in the end?

Nostalgia for a life that could have been washes over me, and I stretch out my arm to wrap around Draco’s waist. I’m never entirely sure where I stand with him, whether I’ll say or do something that steps over a line, because we’re not a couple, not really. When he doesn’t pull away from me, I start to relax. I even think about his words earlier, asking me to persuade him, _‘Not exactly what I’d had in mind.’_ And I’d recognized that look, not all that different from girls in bars telling me their flat was only a few blocks away, or an afternoon where the Resistance in America had been staying in an abandoned house, and an auror named Daniel pointed out that we had the place to ourselves for a few hours. It’s just difficult trying to work out how serious he was, because everything Draco says sounds like a challenge, like he’s just asking how far I’d go.

I hate that I have to admit that it would exactly require much persuasion to take Malfoy up on his offer. I try not to think about him like that, except when we kiss I can feel my whole body craving more, and I lie awake at night thinking about his hands and his lips and how long it’s been since I’ve wanted someone this badly.

“What do you want me to do then?” Draco says, and it takes me a few moments to work out that he’s probably talking about Voldemort.

“For now, we just want to know what he’s doing back in London. If it does have something to do with a Horcrux, then any information about it would be useful.”

“Okay,” Draco presses a kiss to my temple, “Okay.”

 

Hermione is still awake when I get back, and I pass on Draco’s promise, convincing her that this might be the chance we need. I show her the enchanted pendant he gave me, not all that different from the coins we used in the DA, which will light up with the details of our next meeting, once he has the information.

“It can’t be traced,” I assure her.

“You’re certain? Because this seems like something that could lead you into a trap.”

“I’m certain. Stop fussing.”

Hermione smiles fondly and passes me a cup of tea, along with the pendant once she’s reassured that it’s safe. “We got word from Molly and Arthur this evening.” My heart almost misses a beat at her grave tone, countless worries for Teddy and James- who have been staying with them since we decided our lives weren’t safe enough- flooding my thoughts. Hermione seems to see my fear and continues quickly, “They’re fine.”

“Then what is it?”

“Arthur recognized someone in the house next door, a woman who used to work for the Ministry.”

I shake my head, “Could be a coincidence.”

“You know that it’s not. Who knows how many Death Eater spies are watching them?”

“Fuck. They’ve moved then?”

“To Austria- should be safe for now. We’ll try and figure out a way to see them once Christmas comes around, Harry, don’t worry,” And the assurance, absolute confidence, in her voice is familiar enough to be a comfort, and I wish more than anything that there was no danger in telling her about Draco.

It’s almost a month before he contacts me, weeks of not knowing and expecting someone to return one day with news of Malfoy’s arrest. In the time that passes, Dolores Umbridge is elected as Minster of Magic- everyone’s angry and pissed off, but we’re far too used to bad news by this point to get too upset- and I think everyone knows that it’s mostly a distraction, in case anyone starts spreading gossip about Voldemort being back in the country. And still no word from Draco.

Except one day there’s a small article featuring an interview with Astoria Greengrass, sharing political views, which mostly consists of explaining all the things that are wrong with Muggles, concluded by a few sentences about her rumored relationship with Draco Malfoy. The accompanying photograph shows them at lunch together just a few days ago, and I relax a little, knowing that he isn’t dead.

The pendant lights up one morning when Hermione, Dean and I are sat with old computers, trailing through sites and documents we’ve read hundreds of times, trying to convince ourselves we might have missed something.

“Shit, Harry,” Dean says, raising his eyebrows pointedly at my glowing shirt pocket. I pull out the pendant and squint at it, dictating the details for Hermione to write down.

The address takes me to a Chinese takeaway in Tooting, and when I step inside the owner gestures to a back room without much of a greeting.

“Well then,” Draco says as I step into the room, sitting on a stool pulled up to a cheap looking table with paper and maps covering the surface, “You were right. He is moving a Horcrux. As far as can tell, it’s some sort of box- belonged to some distant relative of his, a great great aunt I think, so my guess is that it’s a jewelry box, or a music box,” He talks quickly, without hesitation, but there’s a hurriedness to his voice that puts me on edge. He’s afraid. “Once I started looking, there are actually quite a few people- some of them high up in the ranks- who want to help take down You Know Who,” I almost say something, but he cuts me off, “I can trust them. As much as I need to, at least.” He begins to sort through the papers on the table, and I walk over to take a closer look. Most of them are diagrams of buildings, carefully notated, others are just loose sheets of paper covered with his elegant handwriting. “The Horcrux is here at the moment,” He points to a detailed plan of what looks like a house, “And I don’t care how smart Granger is, you’re not going to get past the defenses. He can’t risk losing it- he’s too weak to make another one now- so he’s putting everything into protecting it.”

“When’s it being moved?”

“End of July,” I barely manage to suppress my bone deep sigh, “You need time to plan, Potter. What’s another few months?”

He doesn’t understand, doesn’t realize how much we cling to every hope that this war might be close to ending. “Yeah. Right.”

“I have everything you need here,” Draco reaches over and gives my hand a reassuring squeeze, and it’s such a small gesture, yet it feels like an electric shock through my body. I forget my words for a few moments.

“Thank you, really.”

Draco shrugs, “I got bored. Might as well help the revolution.” Pulling out a rucksack from under the table, he starts to fold up the paper and stack the sheets carefully inside. “Did you hear about Umbridge?”  
“’Course I did.”

“And?”

“What do you want me to say?” The table’s clear now, and I lean against it, “We weren’t exactly holding out hope for a Minster that would be sympathetic towards our cause.”

“Duh,” He says, expression once again impossible to read, “Just that she has quite the personal vendetta against you; I wouldn’t be surprised if the search for your whereabouts gets even more intense.”

I can’t help but grin at him, “You’re not worried about me, are you?”

He hesitates before answering, “I don’t exactly trust you to hold out under torture if you are captured, and I’m pretty sure my name would be at the top of the list of interesting information you’d use to bargain for your life.”

“I think it’s the _only_ worthwhile information I have, Malfoy.”

“Exactly,” The lull in the conversation, stretches between us, and though I know it’s none of my business, I think back to the article about the French Minister’s daughter. “Hey, I read something in Witch Weekly-”

“Didn’t know you were a subscriber to that one. Though I suppose, Potter, you could use the hairstyling tips…”  
“About Astoria,” I say, not dignifying his comment with a response, “She’s the woman your mother’s trying to set you up with?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” He says coldly, and I feel vaguely ashamed, like I’ve said something stupid and should have known better.

I struggle to think of what to say now, not exactly wanting to apologize. So I look around this dark, unexceptional room, tinted by the smell of food cooking outside. “What is this place?”

“Chinese takeaway, thought that was obvious.”

“Shut up, you know what I mean.”

“The owner is a friend of Astoria’s- a Muggle, he has some knowledge of the magical world, but not enough to be a danger to us. We can trust him.”

It strikes me sometimes, how awful it is that so many of my conversation these days are supported by the insistence of trust, of loyalty. When did we start doubting these things so much? Surely there was a time when I just _knew_ that my friends would never betray me, that their trust in someone was enough, without them having to convince me to agree.

“What’s she like?” I tell myself there’s no jealousy behind my words, “Astoria?”

Draco narrows his eyes at me, “I don’t know.”

“You’ve had lunch with her, you’re close enough to rely on her friends for safe places…”

“Really?” He smirks at me, then leans forwards to kiss my cheek, “I don’t think you should be worrying about that.”

“I’m not.”

“Sure,” Draco stands next to me where I’m leaning against the table, leaving no space between our bodies, “Okay. I mean, she’s sweet, funny, brave. She has to put up with a lot of… Difficulties, and she doesn’t let it get to her. She’s tough.” He’s frank in his description, complimentary, and although I don’t doubt that I have no reason to be jealous, it’s clear enough that he thinks highly of her, that they might even be friends. “Our parents pressure us into meeting a lot, so we spend plenty of time together. It’s nice.”

“I’m glad,” I say, meaning it. I’m happy that he isn’t lonely.

“I missed you,” Draco says, barely louder than a whisper, “it’s stupid and kind of pathetic but yeah. I’ve missed seeing you.”

“I was mostly just scared that you’d get caught,” I reply, just as quiet.

“Wow that’s so romantic,” Draco says, “Honestly, I’m tearing up.”

“You’re such a dick.”

“Are you just getting that now?”

“Sometimes I think you need the reminder,” I mutter, and to my surprise Draco chuckles softly.

He shifts his body, raises his hand to the side of my face and kisses me. My body responds without me thinking, my hands on his shirt, his waist, his back, pulling him closer. He’s breathing heavily, and the slight tremor in his contented sigh only makes me kiss him harder. It’s an open mouthed kiss, sloppy and desperate, and kisses like this are too rare, kisses with _him_ are too rare. Strange, how a handful of rushed meetings have turned this into something else, have so completely shifted the way I see him. And I can try to deny it all I want, but I know, with a clear certainty that feels like the only part of my life that makes any sense at all, that I am falling for him. Maybe I’ve always been falling for him, but at least now I let myself admit it.

Draco’s lips pull away from mine and then he’s trailing kisses, careful, sweet kisses down my neck. My hand slides beneath his shirt, fingers brushing against his bare skin.

Someone knocks on the door and Draco pulls back like he’s been stung.

“Sir?” A man’s voice calls from the other side of the door. Draco tells him to come in, still a little breathless. “There’s some suspicious looking men outside,” The owner of the place says, not commenting on the fact that it’s pretty obvious the two of us have just been making out as opposed to making plans for the ‘revolution,’ or whatever he thinks is going on.

“What do you mean, suspicious?” Draco says, like he thinks the man is stupid. I should say something, I think, but I’m still reeling from the kiss.

“They’re dressed funny, like your kind. One of them arrived a few minutes ago, and I didn’t think anything of it until another three showed up.”

“Do you think they followed me here?” I ask Draco, finally finding my words.

“Let’s hope so. We’re in trouble if they followed me,” He turns back to the owner, picking up the rucksack filled with papers, “Is there a back door?”

“This way,” He leads us out of the back room and through the kitchens, opening a fire escape and ushering us out. “Tell ‘Tori to stop by some time,” He says as we turn to go, “And take care of yourselves.” Then he shuts the door and we hurry silently down the street, watching cautiously to check that there’s no one watching before we Disapperate.

When we appear in another random street, Draco just keeps walking, cursing under his breath. “That was too close. If Neil hadn’t noticed them- _Shit.”_

I catch up with him, place my hand on his shoulder, “It’s okay, we got away. We’ll be more careful next time.”

“If they find us together-”

“I know.”

“What’ll they do to Astoria, do you think? Fuck. Merlin’s- She’s helped me too much already. This is such a mess.”

But I think of the man behind the counter, the owner of a Chinese takeaway in an unimportant area of London, thrown into a world he likely barely understands, yet still wanted to help in any way he could. “What about Neil?” I ask hesitantly, “Will he be okay?”

“I don’t know.”

But I hear, _‘I don’t care’_ in his dismissive tone, see in his indifferent gaze. And I let it go, because I tell myself he’s too caught up in fear for his friend, that he doesn’t know Neil very well and doesn’t have the space in his thoughts for one more person to worry about.

And I ignore the fact that I _know_ he just doesn’t care about Muggles. Not really. It won’t change anytime soon, and honestly I’m fully aware of my naivety when it comes to him. I’m sure I used to be more critical, even just a few weeks ago, but now… not so much. I wish I would stop being so desperate to think the best of him, but I guess I can’t help it now.

“We should go back,” I say.

“No, it’s too dangerous,” He shakes me off, “I need to see ‘Tori.”

“That’s ridiculous, if people are suspicious then you’ll only confirm what they already suspect!”

“What if it was one of your friends?” Of course he would try and use my ‘righteousness’ against me, or however he sees it.

“You’re jumping to conclusions.”

“I don’t care. I don’t have a lot of allies these days, you don’t know what it’s like I…”

I think back to my fifth year, how grateful I was for anyone on my side, and brush my hand through Draco’s hair. “No, I get it. I do. You should talk to her.”

“You can come with me,” Draco says, as though he’s suggesting I accompany him to class or a café.

“That’s not going to help.”

“You’ve got your cloak?” I nod reluctantly, “Great. Wear that.”

 

Astoria is staying in a cheap Muggle hotel, explaining that she has Ministry work to do and it’s easier to focus here, but in the looks she shares with Draco, it’s likely that there’s more to it that that. I’m wary as we enter the room, hearing Hermione’s warning of a trap in my head.

“Hey look, it’s everyone’s favorite outlaw,” She says when we shake hands, “It’s great to meet you.” I return the comment, though perhaps not entirely sincerely. Her and Draco start talking, and I tell them I’m going to get a room for the night, kissing the top of Draco’s head on my way out.

Sitting on the bed in a basic, slightly dingy room, I pull the cheap mobile phone from my pocket and text Hermione.

_we were right about ykw. planning something. I have some details we can use. won’t b back until tomorrow._

Maybe that’s a little presumptuous of me, but with a chance to have a room to ourselves, I can’t help but be optimistic.

_that’s gd news!!! b careful harry xx_

Some of my friends have reacted with barely muted suspicion to the use of Muggle technology, but Hermione and I came to the conclusion that we might as well take advantage of the Ministry’s complete lack of understanding, and use some of it to give us an advantage, albeit a small one.

It’s nearly half an hour before Draco comes by, looking considerably more relaxed. “Did she tell you that you’re being an idiot?” I ask as he sits next to me on the bed.

“I had every right to worry about her, Potter, you know that.”

“Yeah, sorry,” I shuffle backwards, leaning against the headboard and Draco does the same. “If I tell you something, will you keep it a secret?”

“Depends what it is,” He says with an amused smile.

“It’s big, important,” I say, and he doesn’t respond, just wraps his arm around my shoulders reassuringly. “I have a son. He was born a few months before Ginny died. Lives with his grandparents abroad, so that he’s safe.”

Draco just stares at me, and I start to wonder maybe it was a mistake, telling him. Except it’s such a big secret, and the longer I don’t talk about it, the more it weighs on me.

“That’s really sad,” He says simply, “That you can’t be with him.”

“Yeah, it is. I mean, we try to get together at Christmas, but it’s… You can’t tell anyone. He’s only safe as long as no one knows that even exists.”

“Obviously,” He says, “It’s kind of stupid though, to trust me with something like me.”

“Well _I’m_ kind of stupid.”

“You’re not wrong.”

We talk for a few minutes more, and I tell him what little I know about James, and he complains about how annoying it is being essentially forced into a relationship with Astoria, that she’s in love with a Muggle- Neil’s brother, in fact- but that her and Draco will have to keep up appearances indefinitely. Eventually we stop talking, and I turn my head to kiss him. There’s comfort in this, the way it numbs all the pain in my life.

I pull at the bottom of his t-shirt and pull it over his head, hands and lips touching every inch of his torso. He fumbles at the buttons of my own shirt, cursing when it takes too long.

Even my headache starts to fade away as we kick off our trousers, both of us hard and exchanging questioning glances occasionally, a little unsure, both desperately impatient.

I slip my hand beneath the waistband of his underwear, and he moans my name into the crook of my neck, fingers pressing against my back. His lips brush soft kisses against my skin, and he looks up at me, laughing slightly, and reaches up to take off my glasses, placing them on the table by the bed.

We pull off our underwear too, and lie naked, facing each other, I mutter nonsensically as he touches me, hoping he doesn’t pay attention to my words, giving myself away completely to this feeling of our bodies, and his hands, and passionate kisses that I don’t ever want to break away from.

In the morning, I wake first, lying in the pale grey light that filters through the thin curtains. For a few moments, I allow myself not to think of how this makes everything so much more confusing, and just thinking about how much I’ve missed the comfort of someone sleeping beside me. Really, I try to convince myself, this isn’t all that different from the few one night stands in America after Ginny’s death, it doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a distraction, and it’s nice, and I almost feel happy.

Draco’s hair is practically as messy as mine, and before I stop myself, I wonder whether it’s always like this in the mornings. I think about how late he sleeps in and if he drinks coffee first thing.

 _Stop it,_ I tell myself, pushing back the covers carefully, so as not to wake Draco. I shower, still ignoring the reality of having to admit that this is so far from the simplicity I wish it was.

When I step out of the bathroom to retrieve my clothes, towel wrapped around my waist, Draco is awake, rubbing sleep from his eyes blearily. “What’s the time?” He mumbles, looking rather disgruntled.

“Wait a second,” I find my phone and turn it on, grimacing at the screen, “Nearly seven.”

“What the fuck, Potter?” Malfoy says, burying his face into the pillow.

“I should get back,” I explain, “My friends will worry.”

“Uhuh.”

I dress quickly, and when I leave he’s fallen asleep again.

 

“So, productive evening?” Alexander says, taking the seat next to me in the dining hall at breakfast. The American wizard is giving me one of those knowing looks, and it’s an effort not to punch him.

“Yeah, like I said when I got back, my informant told me You Know Who is relocating a Horcrux, and they managed to get hold of some maps and other details. Hermione wants us to start planning practically immediately.”

“Great,” Alexander has a few mouthfuls of toast, and I start to think that he might be done. No such luck. “Is that it?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Only, you didn’t get back until this morning,” He says nonchalantly, without looking at me. “Seems like that’s a conversation that could have taken half an hour, at most?”

Although he’s evidently trying to make a joke out of it, there’s a hint of anger behind his words that I can’t really understand.

“We were just being thorough,” I offer lamely.

“Really?”

“What’s your point?”

He sighs and puts down his toast. “I know it’s Malfoy, your spy- not all that difficult to figure out. It was also plainly obvious that there’s something between you two, however weird or messed up it is.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Alexander sighs deeply. “You trust my judgment, don’t you?”

“Mostly,” I admit. Sometimes the man is rash and unthinking, barges into a situation without considering the outcomes- though, to be fair, I do the same, and maybe that’s why we’ve always got on well- but he is also honest, loyal, and values his friends.

“I know you think the guy’s essentially harmless. I mean, you went to school together, you think you know him, I understand,” Alex pauses, then lowers his voice when he sees other people looking our way, “But he has killed people in this war. For whatever reason he did it, he’s a Death Eater, and maybe he didn’t have the guts for killing once, but he does as hell does now.”

“And?”

“It’s pretty clear that you’re willing to overlook that.”

I clench my jaw, but I know that he’s right. “It’s complicated.”

“Yeah, I gathered that,” We spot Ron and George across the hall, headed towards us, and Alexander whispers, “You’re a moron if you think you can trust him,” Before calling out to our friends and beckoning them over.

 _Alex means well,_ I tell myself, over and over again.

 

Over the next few weeks, we all start to put a plan together based on the information Draco acquired for us. Ron presses me for the name of my informant, but I refuse to tell him, and eventually he gets bored. Draco sends me meeting locations every few days, sometimes to discuss plans, sometimes to moan about his mother or Umbridge- unsurprisingly, she’s insufferable to work with- and sometimes just for a snog somewhere no one will find us. I’m not complaining. The headaches and nightmares are getting bad again, and though he’s concerned, Draco never looks at me like he’s afraid.

One evening in June, the pendant light up with the address of an apartment building in an expensive area of London I’m unfamiliar with. Draco meets me in the lobby, greets me with a chaste kiss on the cheek and takes my hand, leading me into the lift. He refuses to answer my questions as we travel up to the fifth floor and walk a little way along the hall. It’s all very modern, elite, so far from the life I’ve led. He leads me to a door and produces a key from his pocket to unlock it, seemingly barely able to contain his excitement.  

Draco drops my hand as he steps into the room, smiling like he’s trying to impress me. “What do you think?” He gestures widely, moving deeper into the lounge area, all pale, impersonal furniture, new and expensive and matching; dark leather sofas, glass tables with black chairs, pale cream walls and floors, the kitchen units are all sleek and glossy, silver and black and unused, and the bookcase made from white, painted wood. One wall is almost entirely made from windows, stretching floor to ceiling and looking out onto the city.

“What?” I say, still lingering by the door, watching Draco’s jittery movements and unsure as to whether I should be concerned.

“I bought this place. It’s mine. I moved out of my mother’s house and now I live here.”

“Did you buy the furniture as well?”

He looks around, glowering a little, “Is there something wrong with it?”

“It’s very… Shiny,” When his frown deepens I step further into the room, try to see it differently, “That’s not necessarily a bad thing. It just looks more like an expensive hotel than someone’s home.”

Draco’s hand absentmindedly trails along the back of a sofa, long, elegant fingers skimming the surface of the leather as his brow furrows in contemplation, “I can buy new furniture. If you don’t like it.”

“You are absurdly rich,” I comment, closing the door behind me. Everything looks like it’s hardly been touched, and I struggle to imagine anyone, let alone Draco, ever actually living here. “But it’s alright, I guess. Even if it lacks the personal touch.”

We both stand in the empty space, hovering by the furniture but not sitting down, not really welcome in this bright, glossy, yet essentially normal room. This isn’t somewhere that the sons of Death Eaters call home, and invite the boy who lived to approve of furnishing decisions. It’s too unremarkable, and far more luxurious than I’m used to. Draco, who always seems most comfortable in dingy bars despite his wealthy upbringing, only starts to feel at ease when he’s outside and breathing in the cold, city air, seems uncertain of where his place is in his own apartment, especially now that I’m facing him.

“It was about time I moved out,” Draco offers as an explanation, voice still a little jittery, “My mother’s too old fashioned, too stuck in the past. And no one’s going to take me seriously if I still live with my _mum.”_

“I don’t think anyone will ever really take you seriously, Malfoy.”  

“Fuck off,” He crosses the room to a radio on the kitchen counter, fiddles with the dials until a Muggle music station starts playing. “You and Astoria are the only ones who know the address,” Draco says, “I thought it would be useful, having somewhere safe for us to meet.”

The radio host introduces the next song, and as the opening music plays it sounds familiar, though I don’t have much time to listen to music these days.

“I think that’s a good idea,” I reply, closing the distance between us and kissing him, “We could use a safe place, with what’s coming.”

“That doesn’t sound overly optimistic,” Draco says dryly.

“I’ve been doing this too long to be optimistic.”

The lyrics of the song are tinged with love and pain, and it’s foolish to start thinking of us yet I can’t help it. Draco gives a sly smile, stretches out his hand to me.

“Seriously?”

“Yes. Don’t you know how to dance Potter?” All I can do is think back to the disaster that was the Yule Ball at school.

“Not really, no.”

“I’ll have to do something about that, then.”

It’s not really much of a dance, but our fingers are entwined and his hand is on my waist, mine on his shoulder. And it’s silly and ridiculous and cheesy, slow dancing to an old rock ballad in this fancy kitchen, yet I savor every moment. If losing Ginny has taught me anything, it’s that good memories slip away too easily, and I try to hold onto this one. We never know how temporary our happiness is.

_“I know it's hard to keep an open heart_

_When even friends seem out to harm you_

_But if you could heal a broken heart_

_Wouldn't time be out to charm you…”_


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POV: Draco  
> If the plan fails in a fortnight’s time, if they’re caught or outnumbered or just unlucky, then this might be the last chance I have to really talk to him. He knows this too, I see it in the way he lingers by the door, his expression not quite readable.  
> Shit. When did I stop being able to imagine my life without him?

The first time that I’m grateful for me and Astoria’s mock relationship is when Harry leaves a rather noticeable hickey on my neck that I fail to hide beneath the collar of my shirt, and besides a few snide- sometimes congratulatory- comments about my girlfriend, nobody makes too much of a big deal about it. Astoria still berates me for not being careful enough- as though I could forget that our lives rest on a knife-edge.

“So how long do you think we should leave it before you propose to me?” She asks one day when we’re lounging around in my flat, comfortable in each other’s presence but relieved to not have to act all romantic with each other, to not be constantly aware that some nosy reporter might be watching.

“I was going to wait until Christmas,” I say without looking up from my book, “Then a spring wedding?” We try to avoid the actual topic of marriage, of the reality of the day and the rest of our lives spent pretending.

“Yeah, sounds good,” Astoria says, a little sadly, “Unless your boyfriend brings down the Dark Lord before then.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” I reply instinctively, and she just laughs, closing her book and dropping it on the floor, ignoring my glower of distaste at her lack of respect for tidiness.

“You’re an idiot Draco,” Astoria says. She shifts slightly in her chair, and I close my own book to meet her serious gaze. “What’s the point of all this, with Potter?”

“I’m trying to help him.”

“You never used to give a shit about Muggles, or bringing down You-Know-Who.”

“Tori…”

“You do realize how much you’re risking?”

“Of course I do. But it’s fine,” I say, sounding more certain than I feel, “Stop worrying.”

Astoria walks over to the kitchen silently, finds a bottle of wine and a couple of glasses- I don’t bother to remind her that this isn’t actually her home. “I hope he’s worth it,” She says.

In some ways, it’s easier knowing each other’s secrets. Except that now we both live in fear that our own mistakes could tear both of our lives apart. We were lucky, a few months back when the Death Eater’s tracked us down to the takeaway in London, that they didn’t kill Neil- a fake name, and I’m smart enough not to ask his real one. Next time, we might not be so fortunate.

Harry comes by later that evening, haggard and unsmiling. He nods at Astoria and sits quietly at the dining table whilst I get him a drink.

Just two weeks until Voldemort plans to move the Horcrux out of the country. Harry and his friends finally got round to looking into the house in France I told them about, and from what we know, that’s where it will be taken. Once it’s there, they’ll have no hope of destroying it.

And I just have to look at the tiredness in his eyes to know that he’s fully aware that this is their only chance.

I don’t know what he’s been telling his friends, but he’s been round here nearly every other day since I bought the place. He still complains about the decor, and I don’t bother to explain what it’s like to grow up in a household filled with centuries of family heirlooms, everyone terrified of moving a 17th century portrait in fear of offending a second cousin. Decorating a home with new, impersonal furniture is freeing, in a way I know he wouldn’t understand. Once he tried to bring me a potted plant, and I’m aware that he thought he was being helpful, but it felt like he saw us as more than we actually are- although, I shouldn’t really have expected anything else from a guy who married his teenage crush.

“I’m not going to come by again until afterwards,” Harry says eventually, “There’s too much risk.”  
“Makes sense.”

“You know the plan?”

“We’ve been through it at least a dozen times,” I say irritably. By this point I’m practically reciting the damn thing in my sleep. With my help, four of Harry’s friends will sneak into London a day early, and take their places outside the secret exit of the Lestrange town house. There’s a chance that any Death Eaters too cowardly to fight- we mostly tend to stick to murdering unarmed Muggles these days- will flee that way. Across from the house is an abandoned building with the windows and doors boarded up, and unless you know that it’s on the site of an ancient sorcerer’s fortress- or perhaps a manor- it’s entirely unremarkable. There are tunnels beneath, centuries old, still filled with traces of old magic, and that’s where the Horcrux is hidden. A handful of Voldemort’s closest and best Death Eaters will retrieve it in the early hours of the morning, and over a dozen of the Order- or whatever it is they call themselves now- will sneak past the defenses and ambush them once the object is being moved.

“If you’re caught, and Voldemort is impatient, they might use Veritaserum,” Harry says, seemingly assured that I’m familiar with the plan. “Of course, some people can resist it, and it’s not entirely reliable, but it’s still a problem,” He reaches into his bag and pulls out a small vial, “Some people in America have been working on a sort of magical vaccine, stops the effects of it. They emailed the potion to us a few months ago, George and Hermione managed to get it to work.”

I’m impressed. I would have thought such a thing was virtually impossible.

“I have one for you as well, Astoria,” Harry says, hesitant as he always is when he speaks to her.

“I won’t get caught,” She says with a grin, but she stands and walks over to us anyway, “How long does it last? When do I need to drink it?”

He passes us each one of the vials, “The effects are permanent.” That sounds insane, impossible, but he’s completely serious.

It doesn’t taste of anything, seems insubstantial, but I trust Potter’s friends. One less thing to worry about, I suppose.

Astoria shrugs and downs the small mouthful of liquid, and returns to her seat without saying anything.  
“Draco?” Harry asks, looking down at his tightly clasped hands. “We agreed, my friends and I- what we’re fighting for matters more than any of our lives. I know I said before that I wouldn’t ask you to die for something you don’t believe in, but…” Who knows what I believe in anymore? Is believing in Harry any different than believing in his cause? The two are so intertwined it’s hard to know sometimes how much of his values have twisted their way into my thoughts. “It may come to that.”

“You can trust me.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I say.

I spend so much time thinking that these days. I repeat the words out loud. I lie awake at night thinking of how fragile our plan is, how easily it could shatter and fall apart. I’ve started having nightmares again. I haven’t had nightmares for years- guess I just got numb. I see Harry lying dead, or snakes coil around my legs and chest and neck, or Astoria is falling and falling and I can’t look away.

Stop worrying.

It’s better when I wake up and Harry is here. His nightmares are worse than mine. It’s easier to sleep when I’m not alone, with someone else there to reassure me that I’m awake and alive, that I can trust my senses. If he’s not here then I turn on all the lights in the flat and play music and sometimes Astoria is sleeping on the couch so I wake her up as well.

 _Stop worrying,_ I tell myself when I lie staring at the shadows.

 

_Stop worrying._

 

And it’s ridiculous, but a part of me is almost excited by the idea of making a difference, of fighting, of doing something other than just scuttling towards whoever offers the most power. I’m caught up in this, without knowing exactly how it happened, and I don’t think I ever really meant for this to happen. When I left the clues for Harry to meet me in the church, waiting in the cold, I only half expected to get remotely involved in his war. Yet here I am, and I know now that there’s no going back.

Harry considers for a moment, and I wonder whether the mantra in my head is at all convincing my face to show confidence, “I’m only-”

“And I’m saying you don’t need to worry,” I say, a little impatiently, “Can we not talk about something else?”

“Look- We all decided that we would die before we said anything, whatever threats they make,” Harry says, “And I know it’s not the same for you, because they aren’t _your_ friends…” It’s not passion in his voice, just love. Whatever’s changed over the past few years, Ginny’s death and the year he spent in America, and Voldemort in his head, he’d still do whatever it takes to protect his friends. I sigh internally with the realization that this only makes me like him more. We’re such opposites in this, because at heart I am still the self-centered boy I have always been, and though there’s a handful of people I’d fight for, it’s not from nobility but selfishness. He just does this because he knows it’s the right thing. And I’m so drawn to his goodness, his selflessness.

“Yeah,” I don’t want to talk about this, dying for a cause I don’t know whether I believe in, “Okay, I get it. I mean- it’s going to be fine. Honestly.”

Harry groans and forces a smile, “You wouldn’t say that if you knew our track record when it comes to plans.”  
“I’m not sure whether either of us want to know,” Astoria says, cutting into the conversation without even looking over at us, “Just let us live with the illusion that you’re a successful professional when it comes to this stuff.”

“Right. Of course.” He says, unconvinced. I reach across the table and take his hands in mine, brushing my thumb gently against his skin- there’s still a scar on the back of his hand from Umbridge’s time at school- and see him relax slightly.

Eventually we go sit with Astoria, and Harry complains that I haven’t bought a television yet even though he’s mentioned it at least a dozen times. Astoria tells us about her father, and his insane policies for France- “He’s only a quarter French, it’s ridiculous that he even has the position in the first place”- and that her sister has started lingering outside wedding dresses in window displays when they go out together. Harry’s smile doesn’t seem entirely genuine when we joke about the ridiculous of this fake romance, and I change the subject. Somehow we end up talking about school, a topic we usually avoid, but with Astoria and a few glasses of expensive wine, it seems slightly less taboo.

“You were such a prat, honestly.”

“More so than he is now?” Astoria asks, smiling conspiratorially at Harry.

“Oh yeah,” And he grins back at her, but there’s an understandable tone of resentment in what he says.

“A prat that you’re dating,” I point out, winking at him. It was only meant to be a joke, and maybe I should have thought before I opened my mouth, and I expect him to just laugh and let it go. Except there’s this awkward pause, and Astoria is staring very intently at the mole on the back of her hand, eyebrows pulled together in forced concentration.

Harry looks away, “Right. I mean we’re not really…”

“Yeah, relax. It was just a joke.”

Astoria raises her eyebrows and whistles, choosing to ignore the glare I shoot in her direction. Harry is looking down at his glass, as though inspecting it for cracks, and the silence stretches out between the three of us.

I clear my throat, “Are you staying here tonight, Astoria?” It feels like I’m reading from a script, and her eyes sparkles with a restrained, mocking smirk.

“That would probably be easiest,” She says, sighing at the confusion that’s likely clear on my face, “Lunch tomorrow? With our parents?”

“Oh,” Things as trivial as that have been falling from my thoughts recently, every day only means less time on the countdown to facing Voldemort. “I forgot.”

“Good thing you have me around then,” She says, and Harry bristles slightly at the slight flirtation in her tone. I pretend not to notice, but can’t help but feel a swell of triumph at his barely concealed jealousy.

“It would be nicer if you weren’t so smug about it,” I say to Astoria, reaching for the bottle of wine on the coffee table to refill my glass, “I mean you’re pretty much unbearable most of the time…”

“You’re going to have to be a lot sweeter than that tomorrow,” She says with an overly sickly smile.

I sigh deeply, “I suppose I’ll just have to drink a large amount of champagne.”

“My father thinks alcohol is for Muggles and otherwise dull, unintelligent men.”

“Ah. Maybe not then.”

Harry’s moved closer to me as Astoria and I have been talking, so that our shoulders and knees are brushing. “So, just remind me,” He says, a little cautiously, “Why exactly have your parents set you up?”

“Oh fuck, I don’t know,” Astoria rolls her eyes and reaches for her glass, draining it before continuing, “Narcissa sees me as a good match, my family has money and power…”

“And Astoria is so dislikable that it’s a relief for anyone to agree to marry her.”

“Piss off,” She throws a cushion at me, but fortunately her aim is terrible after a few drinks.

And the rest of the evening passes pleasantly enough, until it’s late and Astoria starts yawning, complaining that she needs her beauty sleep. Harry and I go to my room, but I don’t know whether this means he’s staying the night. He sits at the end of my bed, looking at me like he’s about to ask something important.

“What is it?” I ask impatiently, closing the door behind me.

“It’s nothing.”

“That’s such a lie.”

“Okay,” He runs his hand through the untamed mess of his hair, and I can’t help but wonder if he knows how attractive that is, though I expect he’s oblivious. “What you said earlier, about us dating…”

I feel heat rush to my face, “Just drop it, okay? I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“That’s not what I- is that what you want?” Harry asks, looking at the floor, frowning slightly.

“What?”

“I don’t know,” His eyes flick up to look at me, “To be… _Boyfriends.”_

“Do you realize how dumb you sound?”

“Well yeah,” He says, “I couldn’t really think of any other way to phrase it. Look, whatever this is, I mean, it’s been going on for a few months…”

I can’t figure out what to do with my hands, and decide that pushing them into my pockets is probably my best option, “You realize that I’m not replacing your dead wife, right?”

Harry flinches, head falling into his hands, “That’s not what I meant. Don’t be a dick.”

“I can’t help it.”

“Yes, I know,” He says, “Okay, honestly, I spend almost every other night here, we’re practically dating anyway. It wouldn’t change anything.”

 _I’ve never been anyone’s boyfriend,_ I think to myself, but I’m not pitiful enough to say it out loud. “I suppose it makes sense.”

Harry smiles and stands up, closing the distance between us and kissing me briefly, pulling away too soon. “Sorry- I have to go.” I walk him to the door, doing my best not to look at Astoria- almost definitely smirking at me- and kiss him again.

If the plan fails in a fortnight’s time, if they’re caught or outnumbered or just unlucky, then this might be the last chance I have to really talk to him. He knows this too, I see it in the way he lingers by the door, his expression not quite readable.

Shit. When did I stop being able to imagine my life without him?

He could be killed. Harry might die and I don’t know how to get my head around that idea, whether I should say something before he goes. I try to breathe, but my lungs feel too small.

Harry smiles, pulls on the front of my shirt, kissing me with such force and desperation that I take a half step backwards, hands finding their place on his waist. I try to let him know all that I wish I could say, holding him tightly and close, kissing earnestly. When he does pull away, my hands fall limply, and he walks down the hall without looking back.

I can’t sleep at night, and at some point in the early hours of the morning, Astoria creeps into my room and crawls into bed beside me. In the dark, unable to really see each other’s faces, she reaches out to hold my hand and her words are a confession, “If they find out we’ve been helping Harry, then they might find Mike. Sometimes I wonder whether I should just… Just break up with him. I love him so much, but my world is dangerous and we’re forever one mistake away from it all falling apart.”

Time doesn’t matter at night, so I give myself a few moments to think of how to reply, “Me and you, there isn’t much good in our lives. He’ll be in danger as long as you care for him, even if you haven’t seen him for months, you can’t… Don’t give up on being happy, Tori. It’s not worth it.”

She hums in agreement, and within a few minutes her breathing deepens as she falls asleep. I close my eyes, relaxed by her steady presence, and soon enough I feel my own thoughts drift from consciousness.

 

Lunch the next day is long, drawn out and stilted, and only Astoria’s eye rolls when our parents start talking about politics make it bearable.

“Of course, you heard that Sanders’ was promoted…”

“He used to work with Umbridge, it was inevitable. Merlin knows how she became Minister…”

“She approves of the Dark Lord’s methods and is willing to implicate them, but because she’s not a Death Eater it changes the image of the position from thug to politician…”

“I hope you’re not referring to my husband…”

“Of course not, but you have to admit that the bloke before him- Amycus, wasn’t it- was nothing more than a brute… And Umbridge is fixated on finding Potter…”

“Yes, the Ministry has seemed to lost its focus when it comes to him…”

Astoria squeezes my hand under the table, “Dad,” She flashes a sparkling smile at her father and lifts her other hand to show off the jewelry on her wrist, “Did I show you the bracelet Draco bought me? Isn’t it lovely?” I know for a fact that she bought that bracelet herself, but I’m grateful for the change of topic, as well as the approving look of my mother.

They leave in the late afternoon, and Astoria kisses my cheek on the way out, casually, as though this is how we always part.

My mother and I sit quietly in the lounge as the House Elves clear away the meal, and I struggle to think of what to say. She appears to be having the same problem.

“You and Astoria seem to be getting on well,” She says carefully, smoothing down the creases in her skirt.

“She’s a good friend,” I admit with a shrug, though that doesn’t even begin to describe how much her companionship means to me.

“I can tell,” She smiles sadly, “Draco, I really am sorry, that I forced you into this. If we lived in safer times, I never would have…”

“I know.”

“It’s not fair,” My mother insists, as though trying to ensure that I understand what she’s trying to say, “All I want is for you to be safe- and happy. And I’m glad that you and Astoria can be friends, because that way at least you won’t be miserable,” I think perhaps she’s attempted to rehearse this, that she’s run the words through her head over and over again, so I let her continue, “I know that you- well, you won’t love her like I loved your father,” Her voice breaks as it always does when she talks about him, “But being loyal to the Greengrass family will give you protection, should the Dark Lord turn against us again. I’m only trying to look after you, that’s all I’ve ever-”

“Yeah, mum. I understand,” Her eyes are filled with tears, and I shuffle closer to her on the sofa, wrap my arm around her shoulders, tell her that I’ll stay here tonight. She means well, I think. She loves me and she means well, and I’m lucky to have her. She cries softly, and I feel a little uncomfortable, but I don’t move away. I don’t really think she’s the one who has a right to be upset, but I suppose it’s been difficult, these past few months, especially now that she’s alone in this house, with only the House Elves for company. It’s cruel of me, to move away and not even give her my address, and I always forget until I’m back here, and her face is so filled with sadness.

My room is still kept clean, though I, irrationally, half expected it to be covered in dustsheets and cobwebs. And I didn’t take anything from this house to my new flat, except a few books, so nothing’s changed since I left. I wait until I’m sure that my mother is a sleep before I go to bed, worried that if I leave her alone she’ll just drink until she’s no longer conscious. Then I crawl up under the cold, clean covers, my mind mostly clear of anxieties, falling asleep quickly for the first time in weeks.

 

I wake up in the middle of the night, suddenly lurching from my dreams, taking a few moments to remember that I’m in my old room. At first, I assume that the shouting I heard was nothing but the wild creation of my uneasy sleep, echoes of my fading nightmare. There’s a moment of quiet as I lie, eyes open, and then I hear heavy footsteps on the stairs, and a shout that dissolves into sobbing- my mother. I try to think fast, but my mind is still foggy with sleep, and all I do is stumble out of bed and grab my wand from my bedside table. By the sound of the voices, there are at least four of them, and if they have my mother than risking fighting back might be too dangerous. Except her crying has stopped now, and for an awful moment I consider that she could be dead.

They burst into my room, and until then I had assumed they were rebels, but I recognize them, and some of them I once considered friends. Death Eaters. So they’re here on Voldemort’s orders.

All at once, the relative bliss that has become my life over the past few months falls apart, because he _knows._ It’s the only reason that the Death Eaters would be here.

It’s lucky that Granger managed to brew that potion.

They bind my hands in front of me with a spell and drag me out of my own house, and my mum is stood on the pavement outside, silent tears running down my face. I’m not relieved though. I can’t bring myself to think that any good can come from her being kept alive.

Once we’re outside the bubble of my house’s defenses, one of them, a woman a few years older than me, pulls a bottle from her bag- a Portkey, I think blearily, my suspicions confirmed as we spin and lurch through space, landing eventually on the street outside the Ministry.

I don’t want to look at my mother, terrified that she’ll know this is my fault as soon as our eyes meet. It’s all falling apart. I wish I’d just stayed away from Potter after they let me go. I wish I could have _forced_ myself to stay away- I knew that no good could ever have come from it. I was an idiot, and now I’m paying for it.

They drag us both in through the main doors, and my mother trips and the man holding her arm only pulls all the more roughly. We’re marched down corridors, and I start to realize that we’re headed towards the court rooms, that they’re at least dedicated to making a show of this.

I’m still wearing my pajamas. My mum is in her nightdress. She doesn’t deserve to be humiliated like this.

Did Harry know this was what I was risking? Did he even think that I have people I can’t bear to lose? He worries about his own friends and family, and maybe he even worries about me, but did he ever consider that allying myself with him could bring my whole world crashing down?

The doors to the court room are thrown open with a deafening crash. Voldemort sits on his throne on a raised platform. A wizard named Dawkins stands beside him, smiling at me haughtily. He gave me information about the Horcrux, told me all about his sister who had married a Muggle, all the reasons he had to hate Voldemort. And I believed him without hesitation.

Merlin, I was a moron for thinking that no one would talk. I was too filled with arrogance, caught up in my certainty that nothing could go wrong, and _of course_ that worm took hold of the opportunity to impress the Dark Lord.

I look around at the other Death Eaters, here to witness my embarrassment, the Malfoys’ fall from grace. And our fortunes keep on turning, as they always do. Except I can’t, no matter how desperately I try, picture a way for us to rise again after this.

I let out a choked, defeated sob when my eyes fall on Astoria’s face, her arms pinned behind her by her own cousin, and she calls out my name when she sees me, and it’s all I can do to stay standing.

“Dawkins has been telling me some interesting stories about the questions you’ve been asking,” Voldemort says calmly, not looking at the smug man stood at his side.

I decide to stay quiet. If I speak my voice may betray me, show how much I’m shaking. My cry at Astoria’s appearance here already earned enough laughter.

“I’m disappointed, Draco,” His words cut through the air like ice, and it’s all I can do not to wince. “And you’re going to tell me what Potter and his friends are planning.”

I shake my head, and a mumbled “No” escapes my lips.

“What did you say?”

My eyes are swimming with tears now, and I try to focus on the light hanging from the ceiling, to blink and not cry. _Pathetic,_ I think to myself. _At least hold your head high._

“I have nothing to tell you,” I say, louder now, and though my voice trembles, I sound at least a little defiant.

“Is that so?”

I’m pushed to my knees and a small bottle is forced between my lips. There are hands on my head, my jaw, my shoulders, and I can’t stop myself from swallowing a mouthful of the stuff.

I don’t feel any change. It’s Veritaserum, I think with confidence, and all the thoughts that fly through my head are prayers that Granger’s antidote works.

“What did you tell Harry Potter about our plans?”

The lie slips with relative ease from my lips, “Nothing.”

He rephrases the question, asks again and again, and each time I lie, I insist that I didn’t do anything, that I’m loyal to him, and I begin to think he might give up.

A foolish hope, really.

“Have you _seen_ Harry Potter over the past three months?”

 _“No._ This is ridiculous. Why would I want to help him? I swear. I swear that I wouldn’t betray you.” It’s too easy, to stand in front of him and refuse to tell the truth. At the moment, I have nothing to lose from lying, and would destroy so much if I admitted everything I’ve done. It’s not just Harry’s life in danger. It’s the hope of an end to this war, something I thought that I’d never care about, and yet I do.

“You’re going to have to try harder than that if you want to convince me, Draco,” Voldemort stands up and walks towards me, and the Death Eaters at my sides take a few steps back. _“Crucio.”_

I should have grown used to this spell by now, after all the times that it’s been used on me. But I haven’t. For a few seconds, the pain reaches into my mind and invades all my thoughts. My blood is on fire and my head will burst and the pain _lives_ inside me and if I could rip it out I would.

It fades, and I’m trembling, my body clammy with sweat.

I breathe, and I can think clearly again, and I cling to the phrase that flashes through my head, _Harry’s life is worth more than mine._

“There’s no point in lying, pretending that you’re anything more that a fickle _maggot_ with no sense of loyalty,” Voldemort says, and someone giggles sharply, the sound echoing in the otherwise quiet room, “Surely you do not think that they would make the same sacrifices for you? They _despise_ you, use you only because you are valuable to them, but if your places were reversed then they would give you up in an instant.”

“You say it like that should be a surprise to me,” I mutter, smirking at him against my better judgment. He curses again, his shout of _“Crucio”_ twisted with rage.

I fall forwards, curling into myself, fingernails digging into my palms. “No,” I say, voice hoarse, “No. No. _No._ ”

“Why are you protecting him?”

Good question. Not one I really have an answer to.

_His life is worth more than mine._

Is that it? Is that enough?

“Draco,” His hand is on my chin, moving my face so that I’m looking up at him as he stoops before me, “I am giving you one last chance.”

I swallow, heart thudding sickeningly. I slide my eyes over to where my mother stands, still crying, and she shakes her head at me.

I don’t know what she means.

What does she want me to do?

“I have nothing to tell you,” I tell him, dragging my gaze away and finding Astoria instead.

“Draco! Please- _Draco!”_ She struggles against the man holding her, and I wonder how much of the worry in her voice is genuine. She knows that I can’t tell them anything, knows how much is at stake. But we have to keep up the pretense, even now.

“I’m sorry,” I breathe, and I’m on the verge of crying now, “I’m so sorry, my love.” Did I sound sincere? It f _elt_ honest, and even if the romance is pretend, I do love her. I hope she knows that. And it hurts when I look away, casting the pain in her face from my mind.

Voldemort steps back and raises his wand, and I close my eyes, not wanting his face to be the last thing I see. I force myself to sort through memories, to find something to cling onto, something worth dying for.

And for some reason, my thoughts settle on Harry’s and my first kiss, the cold of the stone and both of us crumbling apart and falling into each other.

_“Avada Kedavra.”_

Nothing. I wait. I should be dead.

Then I hear a heavy, unmistakable thud, and I _know,_ even before I turn my head.

It’s my mum’s body that lies on the floor, eyes open and unseeing, face tearstained.

“No. No, bring her back,” I mumble, trying to crawl towards her, but the binds on my wrists stop me, “That’s not- she didn’t have anything to do with this.” Is Harry’s life still worth it? Is his cause still worth it? I don’t know. “Bring her back.”

The Death Eater that had been holding her sniggers at my helplessness- his name is Rudellis, we used to go out for drinks sometimes.

“Your girlfriend is next- unless you tell me everything,” It takes me too long for what Voldemort says to sink in, I can’t stop looking at my mum, expecting her to move, to speak, to not be dead. “Draco. Did you hear me?”

“Please Draco,” Astoria whispers. To everyone else it sounds like she’s begging for her life, but not to me. _Let me die. Tell them nothing._ But even though I know what she wants, all I can think is that she is my best friend. She’s my best friend and I’d be lost without her. Astoria is in love with a young Muggle and if I let her die then the life, the future they deserve together will never happen. His world will be torn apart. I cannot let someone else, someone I love, die.

Harry Potter’s life is worth more than mine.

But it is worth no more than Astoria’s.  
I swallow my shame, bury it down like I’ve taught myself to. I push my pain and my anger into the numb shadows that I once shrouded myself in gladly. I had not realized until now how much my emotions have been ripped open by Harry, that I was once desensitized to all of this instinctively.

I’m a Death Eater. The mark on my arm has made that my life for years, and I was a fool for letting myself believe there was any other choice.

Astoria is still pleading when I turn to Voldemort, breathing past the lump in my throat until it fades away.

And I start talking.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POV: Harry Potter
> 
> “I told you we couldn’t trust that bastard,” He snarls. “I told you, and you promised that you knew what you were doing."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because of the way the plot worked out for this chapter, I'm afraid Draco isn't really in it. But I am going to try to get the next chapter up ASAP and I'm sorry- it's just the way it ended up. What happens in this chapter is still important. And he's mentioned a lot, and Harry thinks about him. He just doesn't actually. Show up.

“Harry, for the last time,” Hermione says, looking up for the pile of parchment in front of her, “You can’t come with us.”

I sigh loudly, resisting the urge to slam my head onto the table, “We’re not having this conversation _again._ I’m sick of just sitting around, okay?”

She thinks it over, looks towards Ron for his thoughts. The three of us are sat in their room, which is mostly just Hermione’s private library, and in two days time we will make our move. If all goes to plan, another Horcrux will be destroyed. I assure them that we can trust my informant- still unsure how to tell them that it’s Draco Malfoy- even though I can’t help but be worried. The Prophet reported that the Malfoys, Astoria included, had left the city and were taking an indefinite holiday in their country manor. I just hope that he’ll be able to make it back in time.

“Harry, it’s dangerous…” Ron says, looking between us and clearly not sure who he agrees with.

“It’s dangerous for you too,” I remind him, “Hermione’s _pregnant_ for Merlin’s sake.”

“So?’ Hermione raises her eyebrows at me, peering over her books to shoot me a terrifying glare, “Doesn’t mean I can’t fight.”

She’s right. Pregnant or not, she’s one of our most talented duelers. There was a time when she was admired for her complex charms and transfigurations, but now we look to her for offences and jinxes and curses. Turning a mouse into a matchbox isn’t much use to us these days.

I hope this war is done before their child is born.

I hope I don’t die before I next get to see my son.

“We’ve always done this together,” I say, “Since the beginning. I don’t see any reason why she should stop now.” Hermione opens her mouth to argue, but I cut her off, “I’ve heard all of your arguments before, and I know but… I feel so useless. If You Know Who does show up, at least I might be able to occupy him for a few minutes, whatever the outcome.”

Ron gives me a strange, sad look, and waits a few moments before nodding his head. “It would make sense. You give people hope when you fight at their sides.”

“I’ll be careful.”

“When have you ever been careful?” Hermione says, smiling a little. She passes me a map, heavily annotated with both hers and Draco’s handwriting. I had worried that she’d recognize it, before I realized that remembering the handwriting of a guy she went to school with six years ago would be ridiculous. She points at one of the entrances, and tells me this is where I will enter with her and Neville, along with a few others. Ron will be with a group which will come through the opposite side of the building. Essentially, we just have to rely on being fast and effective, and taking down enough of them to win. We’ve all been training harder than ever, and it almost reminds me of the DA. Except this time the war feels so much more real, and we all know what it’s like to go into battle, and we’re getting closer and closer to a fight many of us might not walk away from.

Later, we abandon the books and paper- I’ve been told all this information so many times that I see diagrams and Hermione’s notes behind my eyelids when I try to sleep at night.

“Harry,” Hermione says softly, stacking the parchment in an order only she understands, “Who gave you all this?”

“It doesn’t matter, okay?” I say, hating that every conversation is centered around this part of our lives, that they demand explanations for every one of my actions. Why can’t they just understand that I have reasons for keeping secrets? It’s not as though I’m hiding the truth from them simply out of spite. But Hermione still flinches, and Ron looks away, avoiding my gaze. “All I ask is that you trust me.”

“You haven’t considered that it may be a trap?” Ron asks, the same question everyone’s been hinting at and rephrasing at me over the past few weeks, as though they have to remind me of the dangers, which is ridiculous. I trust Draco. Of course I do. That doesn’t mean that I’m not terrified every time I put my friends in danger, wondering whether they would have been better off if they’d never met me, knowing that they’re fighting for the cause, and not for me, but still I wonder… So many people have fallen in battles I’ve led them into, and how many of them have lain there dying and blamed me?

“We all know the risks.” I’m trying to convince myself more than anything, to remind myself that everyone on my side has long ago accepted that they might get hurt.

I don’t want any more of my friends to die.

I can’t lose Ron, or Hermione, or any of them.

All we can do is prepare, and hope, and fight as hard as ever, and maybe we’ll make it through this next battle.

“You don’t have to tell everyone,” Hermione pushes, not giving up on her enquiries just yet, “But we’re your friends- don’t you think we deserve to know who we’re… I mean, we’re risking our lives, just based on your word.”

“Is that not enough?” I snap at them, and I wish immediately that I hadn’t but I can’t hold back my frustration. They just don’t _get_ it. I need them to trust me, which they wouldn’t do if I told them about Draco. They don’t know him like I do. (They don’t know that he’s started singing along to Muggle songs on the radio when he thinks I’m not watching, and how his eyes light up when he smiles, really smiles, that every time we kiss he still looks like he can’t quite believe it.) And I sort of prefer it this way, having something that’s mine alone, that no one else can interfere with. There’s Alexander of course. Every time I get back from Draco’s place, Alex gives me this look, like he knows exactly what I’ve been doing and disapproves with all of it.

Sometimes he even pulls me aside, warns me how much I’m risking. If anyone else knew, it would be a nightmare.

“We hardly see you anymore!” Hermione shoots back at me, and I shove down that stab of guilt. _I’m not doing this to spite them_. I just want to be happy. I have to keep telling myself that. Or everything will crumble down.

Ron squeezes Hermione’s hand. They agree on this one, that I’m being unreasonable.

They’re my best friends, I find myself thinking. They’re my best friends and they deserve the truth. If they hate me after that, then it’s their own narrow-mindedness which is to blame, and not my idiocy.

It’s just that telling them would mean so many more questions, questions I’ve been happy until now not to answer.

I know in my heart that I can rely on Draco to not betray us. Once this is over, and I can prove that he’s on our side, then I’ll explain everything.

“It’s just that they’re my friend,” I say, pushing down their anger at their reluctance to take my word for it, “And I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone their name. I don’t want to break my word.”

They don’t look happy about it, but they leave the topic alone after that.

 

The night before the attack, I barely sleep from nightmares.

I think most of them are just my own imagination. They have the bleary, confused quality of ordinary dreams.

 

I follow my son through a maze, like the one from the Triwizard tournament, shouting for him to slow down. Every time he’s within my sights again, he disappears around a corner.

There’s blood on the leaves.

Except the hedges aren’t made of leaves anymore, just piles of bodies and bones and they’re everywhere but I walk through them like wading through water.

 

Draco’s hand delicately touches my chin, tipping my face up to kiss him. His lips are cold.

He’s wearing the Death Eater mask. I pull away in shock and the snake tattooed on his arm is moving.

Draco is gone. I’m alone with the snake. It doesn’t lunge, just gently curls around my body, and my fingers glide along its smooth skin.

 

I think I’m awake and then I turn and Ginny’s body is lying next to mine in the bed, staring right at me with eyes empty of their fire I loved so much.

 

In the morning Neville asks if I’m alright. Seamus offers me a strong drink, but hastily adds that he was only joking when Hermione glares at him menacingly.

There’s less pressure on my thoughts today, and despite my nightmares last night, my head feels clearer than it has in weeks. Maybe Voldemort has other things to deal with today instead of tormenting me. Normally I would have expected him to sense my anxiety and take advantage of the added weakness- but perhaps today we just got lucky.

The day passes slowly. It’s painful. None of us can eat, and we try to play cards but we’re all nervous and irritable and it seems too trivial. I sit down in my room and write a short letter to Arthur and Molly- just in case. I thank them for caring for James, and for being the most loving family I could have asked for. Then I write something to my son. I always do this, every time I know it’s not going to be easy.

I tell him everything I wish my parents had been able to say to me, just in case he has to grow up without me.

As I write, I let myself wonder what it would be like to actually be in James’ life, to watch him grow and become a person. It seems too difficult to imagine a world where I know that he’s safe. And this time, just for a moment, I picture bringing Draco home with me (wherever home is) and him being part of my family. And no one would care that he’s a Malfoy, and that his allegiances over the years have been… Questionable. They’d just be happy that I’m not alone any more.

It’s nice to let myself dream for a moment.

When I get home, safe and alive, I’ll burn the letters.

 

Night falls. Everyone selected for this task gathers on the field, just inside our perimeter, preparing to leave. They whisper anxiously, move from foot to foot, inspect their wands, clasp their friends’ hands.

Hermione touches my arm and looks at me pointedly. Right.

“Okay, everyone,” I say loudly. People look at me immediately. Most of them are too anxious to have already been engrossed in conversation. “We all know the plan. I’m not going over it again. Fight with everything you’ve got. This is more than just life and death, if we win today, we’ll be closer to killing You Know Who than we have been in years. We’ll be one huge step closer to ending this. Just remember that. So many people have suffered and died because of him, and so many more will continue to suffer and die, and we have the responsibility, the chance, to end it. Just… Keep in mind losing is not an option.”

There’s a soft ripple of appreciation for my words, then George looks at his watch and nods at Ron. They’ll be the first group to leave. A few hugs and kisses are exchanged as they prepare to leave the boundaries of our sanctuary, and I feel separate from it. Ron catches my eye as he pulls away from Hermione, and I try to let him know that I understand. She doesn’t need looking after. But if she’s in danger, I will do anything to protect her. Just as I would for him.

But maybe it’s selfishness on my part, because I could not live in this world if I lived whilst one of them died. That’s not the way it’s meant to work.

People like Hermione and Ron get happy endings.

“Good luck,” I say as Ron walks past me.

“You too.”

They cast Disillusionment Charms on each other, checking that they’re effective before passing through the barrier and Disapparating a few seconds later.

In a few minutes we’ll leave too.

What are our chances of actually succeeding?

If Draco’s done everything he promised he would, damaged all the alarms, neutralized the wizards living in the Lestrange house, and avoided suspicion from the other Death Eaters selected to move the Horcrux, if we have the element of surprise and outnumber the enemy, if this isn’t all a setup then maybe, just maybe, this will be okay.

And then Draco and I can figure out what to do next.

“Time to go,” Hermione announces, her voice shaking almost imperceptibly.

This is it then.

 

We Apparate into the street next to the Lestrange house, which Draco and I walked past one night so I would know where to take everyone. Nothing happens. I lead my friends down the road, and into a small alley beside the elegant building, our footsteps muffled by our charmed shoes, and still no alarms go off, no one attacks us from the shadows. When we get to the tall, iron fence around the garden, and count the railings to the left of a unicorn shaped topiary balanced on top of a column. I reach the seventh one, and gingerly press my bare palm to it, sensing Hermione holding her breath as she stands at my elbow.

The concealed gate swings open. The metal doesn’t burn my skin, or conjure shadows from the garden, or fill the night with loud noise and bright light. Draco has done everything he promised.

He’s risked so much. _For the cause_ , I tell myself. It’s overwhelming when I start to consider whether this is all just because of me.

We all hurry onto the lawn, holding the image of the maps in our mind, scanning the space for the apple tree that conceals the entrance to the tunnels. It feels too exposed out here, and I want to pull on my invisibility cloak. Hermione said the chameleon charm would be enough, but I’ve never been able to get used to it.

 _“Here,”_ Someone whispers, I think it’s Neville, and I follow his voice to a fairly small tree, hidden behind larger ones that I don’t know the names of. I accidentally bump into someone, and a girl’s voice hisses at me to be careful.

“Shall I do it? _”_ Hermione asks softly, and there are mumbled agreements. I don’t see what she does, but she mutters a spell, and dark shadows spill from her wand, bleeding into the tree’s bark and the roots and soil. The ground opens up, and we step back, not really wanting to fall in.

It’s hard to tell in the dark, and I have to squint, but a stone staircase has been revealed, leading into the earth.

“Is everyone with us?” I ask, and they list of their names in the agreed order. “Well, let’s go then.”

I go first, and the steps are slippery, uneven, and as soon as I’ve taken a few steps I realize how bloody freezing it is down here. The walls and floors are stone as well. White flame blazes into life in the sconce closest to me, casting an eerie light on the corridor. Its glow doesn’t reach more than a few metres, and I’m just presuming that there’ll be another candle once we pass this one’s limits.

We don’t have time to dawdle, so we keep moving, and I turn every few seconds, convinced that someone must be following us.

There’s a creaking sound, and the earth closes up around the top of the staircase, sealing us in. I can’t shake the sensation of being trapped.

We follow the passage for a few minutes, until we reach a crossroads. Draco told me the route a hundred times, and I take the left turn without hesitating. The Disillusionment charms are starting to wear off, like there’s something in these tunnels draining the potency of the spells. The further we go, the more I start to feel watched, the hairs at the back of my neck stand on end, a shiver goes down my spine, my fingers tingle strangely.

“Remember what I said about this place?” Hermione whispers when I voice my concern (We’re all to afraid of making noise, even though logically we know we’re alone in here.) “One of the Middle Age’s most powerful wizards lived in these lands. He discovered more about magic’s secrets than anyone else, and he hid things in the earth, things that left traces,” I see her face as we pass beneath another of the eerie lights, and she looks equal parts fascinated and terrified, “That’s all we’re sensing, the remnants of that time.”

“No wonder You Know Who wanted to hide a Horcrux here,” Maria says. She’s a few years older than us, used to be an auror. Her father was killed when the Italian Ministry was taken over. “There’s so much… Raw power.”

The path winds upwards, and there are other routes going off in different directions, and even though I know the way, I can’t help but imagine what it’d be like to be trapped down here, wandering forever, in the dark and cold.

There’s a door up ahead.

“Neville?” Hermione whispers. The door can only be opened with Pure blood, and he volunteered. There’s a spell too, and once I would have been anxious to trust Neville with the complexity of it, but he’d proved himself to be more than capable over the years.

Beyond the door is a small chamber, with no visible way out. I light up my wand too look closer, finally making out the shape on the ceiling. As I step forwards, a ladder materializes, and I make my way up the rungs. I tap out a pattern on the wood with my wand to unlock it, and push the trapdoor open carefully.

I wait for an alarm, but there’s nothing. I step out into the basement, and gesture for everyone else to follow. It’s empty apart from a few cardboard boxes, damaged by water and time. My friends stand around me. They’re here, trusting me, because I’ve promised them that everything will go to plan, because Draco has promised that he wouldn’t betray me, that he’s done everything in his power to ensure this runs smoothly.

It’s not the first time I’ve wondered how I’d explain my certainty of his reliability to my friends. Or how my fifteen year old self would react if I tried to tell him about what this is. It’s dizzying, knowing that I don’t even have a logical explanation or justification for my belief in this man I once detested. It’s just that everything with him feels right, when the rest of my life has been nothing but a maddening mess for so long, and he steadies it all.

We have to move quickly.

I make my way towards the door and pull it open, and I’m met by flashes of light that half blind me. Curses fly towards me, and it’s instinct alone that makes me throw up my defenses, fending off the attacks, fighting back in the general direction of the Death Eaters.

There wasn’t meant to be more than three of them here at this time. We were supposed to have the element of surprise, take them out and break into the vaults to retrieve the Horcrux.

We fling our own curses back at them, rapid fire, and someone behind me falls but I don’t have the time to turn and look who it is, don’t even let myself be distracted by the weight of fear, of knowing that one of my friends could be dead.

Is it just coincidence? Did they change their plans at the last minute? I don’t let myself consider the alternative. I need to focus on staying alive, of pushing forwards, and if I allow my thoughts to go to the possibility that Draco… He wouldn’t. This isn’t something we could have prepared for. He just got the information wrong.

It’s not his fault.

There’s a flash of white light and Hermione’s pulling on my arm, dragging my blindly across the floor. We keep running, and after a few moments my sight returns.

“What are you doing?” I hiss, and she slams the door behind us, sealing it with a powerful charm. Neville, Benjamin and Lisa are with us. “What about the others? We can’t leave them there!”

“Death Eaters got them,” Neville says gently, “There’s nothing we can do.”

I take a steadying breath. And another one. This isn’t how it was supposed to have gone.

Hermione looks at me and I know immediately what she’s thinking. That whoever my informant is, they told Voldemort everything. And that she was right to doubt me.

She’s wrong.

The Death Eaters the other side of the door throw their weight against it, try to unlock it, but Hermione’s charm is the best any of us have ever seen. She’s the only one that can ever unseal doors after she’s locked them.

Pain slices through my head, suddenly, without warning, like a cleaver has gone straight through my skull. I collapse, legs buckling beneath me and I can’t see the corridor anymore, just flashes of images.

I don’t know how long I’m out of it for, could be seconds, or minutes, but eventually I blink and I’m seeing through my own eyes again.

“He’s close,” I say, unable to shake off the pain completely. My friends are nothing more than blurry shapes huddled around me. “You Know Who. He’s here.”

“Where?”

“Upstairs.” Benjamin pulls me to my feet, and I realize that this is the first time he’s seen me so weakened by Voldemort’s mind. I mumble an apology to him, but he dismisses it.

It’s been a while since I’ve been this near Voldemort, and it’s like there’s a tugging inside me, a fish hook pulling on my guts, and it’s tearing me up inside. I can feel his eagerness, something close to ecstasy. He thinks victory is near now. He has every exit covered and there’s no way out for us, and I’m going to die here.

My friends are going to die too, Hermione, Neville, Ben, Lisa… Maybe the other group’s got out, maybe they’re hiding somewhere, maybe they’re safe.

“What do we do?” Ben asks, still holding onto my arm.

I don’t know. I don’t what to do. I can’t think of a way out.

This was a foolish, desperate plan. I think I always knew that it was never going to work.

I think I was happy to let us go down in one last, hopeless fight, rather than being picked off one by one in insignificant skirmishes.

These four are some of the most powerful sorcerers I know. We might stand a chance, if we go in there, wands blazing.

“Let’s find him. See how many Death Eaters he’s got.”

No one asks _what next?_ They can hear in my voice that I don’t think there’s any point planning beyond that.

As we reach the end of the corridor, we can hear shouts and blasts from upper floors.

Without pausing, or thinking about it, we start running up the stairs. It’s our friends up there, people we love, and we can’t just wait around whilst they die. At the top of the staircase lies a Death Eater’s body. I step over them, not bothering to see if I recognize them, then push through the doors and into the corridor beyond.

Alexander and Charlie Weasley are facing five Death Eaters, and they’ve been forced back against the wall, casting spells at lightning speed but losing. We fire our own curses before the enemy sees that we’re there, taking down three of them. Now outnumbered, it doesn’t take more than a few seconds to defeat the others.

“We were met outside the tunnels by nearly a dozen Death Eaters,” Hermione says, as we group together, relieved to have found that some have survived so far, “They were waiting for us. We’re all that’s left of our group.”

“Same for us,” Charlie says breathlessly, “I don’t know who else is still alive. Luna and Nicki got separated from the rest of us- I can only hope that they’ve made it. Then Jeremy tried to go after them, and… Well. He didn’t make it more than a few paces. Alex managed to…-“

But he’s cut off when Alexander grabs the front of my shirt, pushing me up against the wall. There’s hatred in his eyes. Fury.

“I _told_ you we couldn’t trust that bastard,” He snarls. “ _I told you,_ and you promised that you knew what you were doing,” I’ve only ever seen him this angry when he’s talking to Death Eaters.

“Wait,” Hermione says, not moving to pull Alex away. “You know who the informant is?”

“It’s a wonder you haven’t worked it out Granger, it’s hardly difficult once you think about it.” No. No this isn’t how I wanted Hermione to find out. She was supposed to realize that Draco has changed, that we can rely on him, that he’s an ally. “It’s that Malfoy. He’s the one Harry trusted with our _lives._ ”

“You don’t know that he betrayed us,” I spit back at him, determined not to look over at Neville and Hermione and the rest of them, ashamed of what I know they’ll be thinking.

“How else do you explain this? They knew exactly when we’d be here, how we’d be getting into the building, what we were planning… You seriously think this is a coincidence?” But it can’t be because of Draco. It _can’t._ Alexander glowers at me, his eyes full of disgust and loathing. “I just watched one of my best friends die. And all Malfoy had to do to get you to talk was fuck you.”

His words smack me in the stomach, winding me, and I feel my face go red. I don’t want to look at Alex, but his face is so close to mine that it’s hard to look away. That’s not such a bad thing. At least I don’t have to look at Hermione.

“It wasn’t like that.”

“Look, it’s not my fault you were stupid enough to believe his sad, miserable act that he put on.”

The more he says, the harder it is to convince myself that Draco had no part in this. And of course I knew from the first moment it went wrong, that he had talked to You Know Who, and I want to lie down, to close my eyes and let the world slip away because I can’t keep living with my mistakes.

If Draco did betray me, if he told Voldemort all of our plans, then he didn’t do it by choice. That’s the only explanation. I don’t believe what Alexander says, that Draco was using me all along. He must have been tortured, threatened, manipulated.

The thought just makes me all the more sick, because that’s one more person who’s suffered because of my stupidity, because I convinced them to fight with me.

There’s a flash of pain through my skull, and I gasp sharply, pushing away the anger and frustration and blood lust that isn’t mine.

“Harry…” Hermione starts to say, and I can’t quite decipher the tone of her voice. I don’t know if she’s disappointed, or angry, or just concerned that Voldemort’s in my head again.

Neville sighs and grabs Alexander, pulling him away from me, “Our friends need help. Let’s not waste time arguing over whose fault this is.”

“I don’t think there’s any question of that…” Alexander mutters.

“Enough. Let’s go.” And Neville starts walking, Lisa and Ben following, then Charlie too. Hermione looks as if she’s about to speak, but she just shakes her head slightly and turns away.

“Alex...” I start to say, but the look in his eyes makes me shut up. Alex met me when I was deep in grief, and was sinking into the darkest parts of myself, and was ready to give up. His friendship is one of the only reasons I survived those months in America after Ginny died, and now he’s looking at me like he wishes I was dead. He’s a good man- quick to anger, ruthless in battle, but good and kind and loyal.

I should have listened to his warnings.

All we can do now is save as many of our friends as we can, and get the hell out of here.

 

The main fighting is taking place in a large open room on the first floor. There are about twice as many Death Eaters as Order members, and I don’t even register the growing hopelessness in my heart. I wish I had time to explain to Hermione why I kept so much from her, why I trusted Draco even though I’ve spent years believing that Malfoys are scum, and weak, and naturally ally themselves with Dark magic.

There’s no time for that.

We just dive into the battle, eyes out for familiar faces, casting curses with as much accuracy as we can manage. Sparks of all colours are flying all around us, and something burns on my arm but I ignore it. I think I see Ron’s face the other side of the room, but I don’t have a chance to get a good look.

Everyone keeps moving, fighting and attacking but I feel a sudden quiet which washes over me. I turn and Voldemort is stood behind me.

 

“The Horcrux?” I say, my wand hand clammy, “The one you hid here?”

“Far away now, Harry Potter. You know,” He takes a step towards me, and I take a step back. “You need better friends, powerful friends, not like these weak, pathetic allies you have. Malfoy cracked too easily. But you should have known that he was hardly the selfless type. He’s far from brave. All the Malfoys are like that, cowardly, desperate, whiny- their loyalties fleeting and insubstantial and conditional.”

The rest of the room really has stopped now, and everyone’s watching us.

“You’ve hidden so well, Harry Potter, until now. I was almost starting to think you’d given up, that you were wasting away in some hovel because you were too scared to face me. After all, you were far too willing to flee from Hogwarts that day, whilst everyone else died in your name. I thought you were finished trying to be a hero. How wrong I was.”

Even if, somehow, this is all over one day, I know I’ll never stop having nightmares about that voice.

“We’ve been getting ready to fight back, Voldemort,” I say, “I’m never giving up, and neither are my friends. Even if you kill me, and every one in this room, that won’t stop people wanting to end you. You can’t destroy the idea of liberty, you can’t defeat the hope of millions across the world. There will always be someone to fight back.”

“Brave words, Harry. And you’ve all fought so valiantly,” He still talks to me like I’m a boy. Voldemort walks past a body on the floor, and turns it onto its back with his bare foot.

_Alexander._

I don’t know how I stay standing.

“There was a time when I would have offered your friends a chance to surrender,” Voldemort continues, “But I’ve grown impatient, weary. You’re going to watch, Harry, as each of your little soldiers fall, and then I’ll finish this.”

No. No this isn’t how it’s meant to end.

Did Draco know, when he told Voldemort what we were planning, that he was signing the death warrant of nearly thirty people?

I wish I knew what to think of him. Because a part of me wants to just forgive, to not let my final thoughts to be filled with resentment.

But then I look around the room, and at all the faces that I know as well as my own, all those people who should live for decades, until their hair turns grey and this is just a distant memory, and I hate him.

I hate that he’s alive and so many good, brave people are dead.

Voldemort flicks his wand and ropes fly from it, throwing me backwards and slamming me against the wall, pinning me there.

My own wand clatters to the floor.

“Where shall I start?” He muses, and he walks past Angelina, who stands with her head held high, staring directly at him.

I want to do something, anything, but there’s nothing and I’m useless and I’m just standing here.

 

Something strange happens.

 

It’s like there’s a black hole in my chest, and it’s pulling everything inside and dragging the whole world into nothing. Then it’s an explosion, everything torn apart, my thoughts fracturing and reforming and splitting into fragments over and over.

I see a flash of an image, a stranger with a basilisk fang in his hands, expression triumphant.

Then it’s gone.

 

Voldemort stumbles back, and the bonds around me break.

He seems to flicker. I can feel his momentary weakness.

Somehow, and I know it with absolute certainty, the Horcrux we came here to find, has been destroyed.

I don’t know who by, or how they knew what it was or what to do, but it’s gone.

Voldemort lets out an anguished shout and whips his wand, snapping a killing curse at a Muggle born man named Peter, who falls instantly.

Then Voldemort vanishes.

 

The room descends into total confusion, Death Eaters and Order members alike uncertain what just happened, and what to do next. Everyone stands there for a few moments, before the shouting and fighting starts again. I reach down to pick up my wand, diving straight back into the battle.

I try to find Voldemort in my thoughts, but his presence has dimmed considerably.

“Potter, come with me. I can get you out,” A man’s voice says at my elbow, and when I turn I see that he’s a Death Eater. I have no reason to trust him, and should really have learnt my lesson, but if he really wanted me dead he would have taken his chance. He tugs at my arm, and I reach out to the nearest friend to me, Seamus, to pull him along too.

We push through the crowds, everyone too caught up in the confusion and the fighting to notice us, until we reach the far wall. The stranger quickly taps out a pattern on the bricks with his wand, and nothing happens.

“It’s like at King’s Cross, just walk through the wall- it’s take you down a passage out of here, to safety.”

Seamus narrows his eyes, “You expect us to take your word for that?”

“What’s your alternative?” He looks around anxiously, “If Malfoy can switch sides, work against the Dark Lord, then why can’t the rest of us? We’ll get as many of your friends to safety as we can, Potter.”

Seamus still looks confused, uncertain, but I have nothing to lose by trusting this guy. I just hope that the others get out of here fast.

Taking one last look at the room, everyone fighting for their lives, I pull Seamus through the wall.

 

People come home slowly over the next few hours.

Just a couple at a time, some of them bringing with them people we don’t know, Death Eaters who say they want to fight with us. Hermione insists that we keep them somewhere secure until we can believe what they’re saying.

She’s still not looking at me.

When Charlie gets back, he motions for me to follow him into a more private room, asks me what happened. I try to explain that I have no reason to believe that Draco would betray me willingly. Somehow, he takes my word for it, and promises that we’ll find out what happened to him.

 

Some people don’t make it back. We sit around, waiting, but it gets to morning and there are still fourteen missing. That’s almost half of those who fought today.

 

I don’t have to get everyone’s attention, they’re all quiet anyway, watching me, expectant of an explanation. We’ve gathered in the dining hall, muttering quietly to the people who stayed behind, trying to make sense of what happened.

“It’s likely that my informant gave up the details of our operation,” I say dully from where I’m sitting, staring at the floor, too afraid to meet the gazes I can feel burning into me. “I take responsibility for that. I trusted the wrong person and there’s nothing I can say that can change that, or take back everything that went wrong. You should know… Before You Know Who disappeared, I saw something, felt it too. Someone destroyed the Horcrux.” People whisper to those around them, and I expect half of the comments are disbelief, dismissing my declaration as nothing more than another of my delusions. I don’t care. I know what happened. “Whoever it was, I think they’re working with the Death Eaters who got us out today. I think some of them are turning against him.”

If it’s true, if I’m right, then this is better than we ever could have hoped for.

And I can’t help but think of what the man said, justifying his reasons for helping me. Maybe word got around about Draco’s shift in allegiance, just a few rumours, and people are realizing that there’s another path, there’s something else worth fighting for.

It’s too miraculous to put my faith in. Yet I can’t help but feel the scales might be tipping, and that the situation isn’t as hopeless as we’d feared.

Then I look around the room, at the dejected faces, at those who have been crying on and off since we got back, at the gaps in groups, and the hopelessness returns. I had never expected us all to make it back, but this loss is crushing.

And it’s Draco’s fault.

Whatever the reason, these people are dead because of him, and he _promised,_ over and over, that I could trust him. What could have happened to change that?

Why did I let myself get so close that this betrayal has shaken up my thoughts so completely? It’s like he’s got into every corner of my mind, and now I have to try and tear him away, to wonder how much it took to start talking.

It was so _good,_ what we had, and now I just don’t know what to think.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POV: Draco Malfoy
> 
> Why did I put his war above everything else? I risked my own life, the lives of those close to me, and what for?  
> Him. Is that it?  
> It’s the way I feel when I’m with him. I’ve spent the past few years trying to bury my emotions and make myself numb to it all, but with him I want to feel all of it. I’m alive when we’re together. I want to help him because I see in him a strength I’ve never had, and he’s one of the few people these days who looks at my like he sees something other than a Death Eater’s son with no idea what I’m doing.

This is the second time this year that I’ve been stuck in a dungeon.

Except this time it’s worse.

Fuck, it’s so much worse.

I’ve made such a mess of things.

And all I can do is wait in the dark, wondering when Voldemort will next decide that I’m useful, or decide that I’m not and finally kill me.

If only Potter hadn’t dragged me into this, hadn’t thought that I was the right person to rely on, had been a little smarter and not met me at the church that night. He’s the one that’s meant to know what he’s doing, he always preaches about doing the right thing. Yet he made me a part of his war, a man who he had no reason to trust.

Why did I put his war above everything else? I risked my own life, the lives of those close to me, and what for?

_Him._ Is that it?

It’s the way I feel when I’m with him. I’ve spent the past few years trying to bury my emotions and make myself numb to it all, but with him I want to feel all of it. I’m alive when we’re together. I want to help him because I see in him a strength I’ve never had, and he’s one of the few people these days who looks at my like he sees something other than a Death Eater’s son with no idea what I’m doing.

Would someone have told me if Harry had died in the attack? I don’t even know how long it’s been- I’ve tried to count the days based on how many meals they’ve given me, but the intervals don’t seem to be regular.

So I’m just stuck in this torment, my mother’s face forever imprinted behind my eyelids, her dead eyes staring at me even in the dark of this cell. I never meant to sign her death warrant, never imagined that with every kiss, every secret meeting, I was agreeing to place Harry’s life above hers. I never meant to that, but I did, and now I can only think of the choices I wish I hadn’t made, the paths I could have taken instead.

Where would I be then?

If I had never let Potter become so great a part of me, I would still have nothing.

I press my fingernails into the palms of my hands, trying to anchor myself to that pain when the silence makes my mind drift, and the darkness tricks me into seeing things that aren’t there. When I feel the warm trickle of blood on my fingers all I can think is that I’m alive and my mother is dead, and Harry could be dead, and his friends too, and yet my heart still beats. How has someone as weak as me survived this long? How is that fair? I deserve to be dead, yet here I am, kept alive for reasons I cannot name.

Astoria is alive, I remind myself. Even though the more I think about it, the less I’m able to convince myself I made the right choice when I sold out Harry’s friends to protect her.

At first I refused the meals they gave me.

After a few days the methods they used to make me eat forced me to comply to their conditions.

I keep waiting, attempting to count the days, to not slip into insanity. Maybe one day they’ll tire of keeping me here, and I’ll finally be allowed to die.

I think it’s been weeks since my mother’s death when the door of my cell is blown open, and four figures step inside, their wands glowing and filling the room with light that stings my eyes so much I have to look away.

“Draco Malfoy?” A girl crouches beside me, and I think I might know her face but my vision is blurry and I can’t tell for certain. “We don’t have a lot of time.”

“What’s going on?” I force myself to stand, and this girl catches my arm before I lose my balance.

“Isn’t it obvious Malfoy? This is a rescue.”

I just look at them, at their lowered wands at the ruins of the door. At least two of them are Death Eaters that I’ve spoken with before, yet here they are, declaring that they want to help me. I can’t think of any reason why they’d want to do that, but it’s not as though I have anything left to lose.

“Well, let’s go then,” I mutter, and my voice is slightly hoarse from lack of use.

I hurry out of the cell in a light daze, the four of them surrounding me, leading me down corridors and through doors. As we walk, they start to explain.

“A few of us have started to doubt the way You Know Who is leading this country,” The girl begins, “By imprisoning Muggle Borns and subjecting Half Bloods to rigorous interrogation before allowing them into Hogwarts and Ministry professions, as well as hunting down anyone with connections to Blood Traitors, our numbers are suffering. Not to mention the massive drain on resources that this is all taking, so much so that other areas of our society are becoming neglected. You Know Who is never satisfied with what he already has, and whenever we think we can stop fighting, there’s some new Ministry to conquer, or a group of rebels to destroy. The more power and control that You Know Who has, the greater his hunger grows, and he’s never going to stop.”

I already know about everything she’s saying. But I’d given it a lot of thought until recently, until evenings when Harry would rant in exasperation, determined to make me understand why it was so important to beat Voldemort, to destroy him.

“What do I have to do with all of this?”

“You’re Draco Malfoy!” She exclaims, like that’s an explanation in itself, “There have rumours, ever since you disappeared three weeks back, but no one was really sure at first what had happened. Then Collins’ brother told him that he was there that night, when Narcissa…”

One of the men interrupts her irritably, “The point is, Malfoy, your family were once one of the most powerful Pure Blood families and yet you turned your back on that, realized that Potter’s cause is the right one. You started fighting to bring You Know Who down!”

I really hate the way they’re talking about me, like I’m some kind of hero.

“Yeah, but then I betrayed them,” I argue.

“To save the life of your fiancé!” The first girl exclaims. Does she think this is some sort of love story? Though I suppose, looking at what’s happened without fully understanding it, that’s really the only way there is to see it.

“Just tell me what happened,” I say, pressing for the information I’m almost too afraid to hear, “Potter and his friends, are they…”

“As far as we know, he’s still alive. Most of his friends got out as well, thanks to us,” One of them says smugly, “And our friend, Jacob, destroyed the Horcrux. He was arrested the next day, and we’re pretty sure he’s dead.”

“He knew what he was doing, Liam.”

_Liam._ As in Liam Randal. No wonder I recognized him, his photo’s often in the Prophet for some popular statement he’s made, or comments on a recent arrest. His father used to play Quidditch for England. How long has he been lying about his true feelings?

“Malfoy, we need you to get back in touch with Potter, explain to him that he has more friends in the Ministry than he thinks.”

My heart sinks. “Harry won’t want to talk to me. Not after what I did.” I wish I hadn’t used his first name. It makes me feel exposed, like I’ve lain out all my secrets for these people to see.

“You have to try,” Liam says as we reach the door that leads into a higher level of the Ministry, “Our numbers are growing, and once we start working with Potter we can bring You Know Who down in a matter of _months._ Hold out your hands.”

“What?”

“Trust me,” Liam insists, and I do as he says. He waves his wand and bindings twist around my wrists.

“Surely we’re not just going to walk out of the Ministry?”

“You’d be surprised how easy it is,” Liam says, “Just keep your head down and stick with us. Prisoners are always being escorted around the Ministry, as long as we don’t draw to much attention to ourselves, we should be fine.”

“Yeah, that sounds like a brilliant plan.”

“Would you rather that we left you to rot?”

I’m not sure whether I know the answer to that.

The other man unlocks the door, and we walk out into the quiet corridor beyond. Anyone we do pass as we make our way to the exit- we’re clearly planning on leaving from the virtually empty street round the back of the building- ignores us or asks a few mocking questions, seeming pretty ecstatic so see me looking such a wreck. Some don’t even seem to recognize me, which is understandable seeing as I haven’t showered or shaved or eaten properly in nearly three weeks.

The only person who stops us is a cousin of mine who thinks he’s Voldemort’s most trusted servant. I’m not sure whether he even knows his name.

“Relax Alcor,” Liam says with an easy smile, “I’m acting on the Dark Lord’s orders.”

“He trusted you with such a task?”

“Why wouldn’t he?” Liam smirks and pulls out a piece of parchment from his pocket, holding it out to Alcor. Eventually my cousin has to let us past, handing back the parchment with glower.

“Always knew you were a slimy worm, Draco,” He says, and I know that he’s right.

The exit from the Ministry goes surprisingly smoothly, though I think I’m the only one that this comes as a shock to. I’m starting to wonder whether it’s just Potter and his friends who are distressingly bad at planning these things. Two more members of this group, I suppose I could call them revolutionaries, wait outside the Ministry with broomsticks.

“This is where we leave you,” Liam says to me. “You’ll travel with Vanessa and Luke to a safe house, and we’ll meet you there this evening. Astoria gave me this, she said you use it to contact Potter.” He gives me the necklace, half of a matching pair that Harry and I have used to communicate with each other for the last few months. So Astoria must have gone back to my flat after that night to retrieve it, before the Death Eaters ransacked the place. After she was almost killed, she put everything on the line again to get this, to do something to help, to do anything.

I hadn’t considered before, but I suppose it’s possible she might feel like she’s partially to blame for what happened. Which means she’ll be pissed at me, might not speak to me again. Even though I know that I’m just speculating, letting myself imagine scenarios that might have no truth in them, I can picture her resenting me for saving her life. Like it was some great inconvenience or something. The least she could do is be grateful, even if it was a terrible, selfish decision. Should I have let her die? Would that have been the right thing to do?

I know that I should feel differently, but I can’t shake the thought that I’d regret it more if I had let her die, that I wouldn’t be able to justify it, that I would hate myself even more.

It’s honestly a miracle that I manage to stay on the broom as we fly over the city, and I spend the whole journey terrified that whatever strength I have left will fail me. All I can think is that a part of me is starting to wish that I could be the sort of person who chooses all that greater good bullshit over everything else, but I honestly don’t know how people do it. After all, what’s the point of fighting for this world if you don’t let yourself be happy?

“You can stay here for a few days,” Vanessa says, leading me into a small, slightly dingy flat. It’s clean, at least, but sparsely decorated, and the wallpaper is fading and peeling in places. “But then you’ll have to move on. We can help a little, as long as it doesn’t put us in unnecessary danger.” I nod understandingly, suspecting that some comment about my safety inconveniencing them might seem a little ungrateful in light of the fact that they just broke me out of prison. “There’s bathroom through there,” She gestures to a door at the other side of the room, and adds, a little mockingly, “You look like you could use a wash.”

“Maybe if you’d broken me out a little earlier I wouldn’t need one quite so desperately,” I comment.

She sighs, taking my broom and leaning it against the wall next to hers, “Just take a fucking shower, Malfoy.” She looks at Luke and inclines her head towards the other door, and as they cross the room they begin to talk in hushed tones, apparently no longer interested in my presence.

_They only rescued me because they need Potter,_ I remind myself bitterly, _I wouldn’t matter at all if it weren’t for Harry fucking Potter._

It’s only when I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror that I fully understand why Vanessa suggested a shower. My hair hangs limp and greasy around my face, and the stubble on my chin is beginning to grow out into a slightly patchy beard. It’s a good job Malfoys have such clear skin, or I dread to think what sort of mess my face would be in after weeks of not washing it. Thankfully there are some clean clothes on the radiator- I’m sure that wearing the same outfit since the night I was arrested has only contributed to the general lack of cleanliness. To think, my cousin Alcor saw me like this. It’s almost as embarrassing as him knowing that I’ve been helping Harry Potter.

After showering and shaving, and dressing in the outfit laid out for me (which both looks and feels like something bought from a cheap Muggle shop, though I suppose it would be rather impolite to complain) I sit on the floor, holding the necklace in my hands and trying to find the courage to reach out to Harry.

I know he won’t be able to resist once I send him the address- unless he’s buried his at the bottom of a drawer somewhere. Despite his better judgment, he’ll come here, alone, ready for an explanation. How much has been reported in the Prophet? I suppose it’s general knowledge now that I’m a traitor, that I’ve been locked up awaiting trial or something.

What’s been said about my mother though? Presumably her death has been announced, now that there’s no longer a risk of alerting Potter to me being apprehended.

I just don’t know what to say to him, how to make this right again.

Not for the first time, I wonder what it would have been like if something had brought us together at school, if we’d let ourselves understand each other back then. How much could have been avoided? Maybe I’d have let him help me, so that I wasn’t dragged so deep into allegiance to Voldemort that I look at myself and can honestly see no reason why Harry has put up with me for so long.

It just doesn’t make any sense. He used to be convinced that I was incapable of making the right choice, of taking any path other than the one my father had, and I can’t begin to make sense of the fact that something changed. In those years after school, where we both had time to make our own decisions, and to get even more screwed up by the world, something changed that meant when we met again, he was determined to see good in me.

The only explanation I can think of that makes any sense is that he’s seen too much evil, and was sick of it, so wanted to believe there was a chance of something else. He wanted to believe goodness could exist where he’d thought there was none.

Except that doesn’t seem like the sort of decision made by real people. It’s too fanciful an explanation, too like something out of a fairy tale.

Maybe I was the one that changed.

I was the one willing to see something else, to be open to a different path. After my father died, I don’t know, it just made everything we were living for seem so pointless. We’d given our whole lives to Voldemort, to serving him, yet he barely acknowledged my father’s death, like we don’t matter to him at all. Lucius could be replaced, so could I, so could any of us. Why wouldn’t I want to try and do something else, something that would make a difference, something that would mean I was remembered as someone other than a name?

Or maybe there is no rational explanation for why it suddenly seemed more logical to help each other, to work together, to finally do something about all those years of confusing, tangled up feelings.

I sigh and decide I’ve already screwed everything up about as much as possible, and cast the spell on the pendant, sending my address to Harry. Now all I have to do is wait.

 

There’s a knock on the door in the early hours of the evening. I stand, my legs weary, hands shaking slightly, and cross the room to open it. All the things I’ve imagined myself saying to him don’t seem right now.   
“It didn’t think you’d come,” I lie when I find Harry face to face with me.

Harry shrugs, and pushes his way past me into the room. Fortunately Liam and the others are sitting in the kitchen, no doubt listening in on our conversation, but at least I don’t have to explain their presence right away.

“Tell me what happened Draco,” Harry demands. This is the Harry I met a few months ago, when we first started talking- he’s pushed all friendliness, all affection, aside. Of course he has.

I close the door and stand there, uncomfortable with the distance between us. “I didn’t have a choice,” I say weakly.

“You once told me that we all have a choice,” He reminds me.

“Okay, so I made the wrong one. I’m sorry,” I say. Not that a simple apology can make up for this. I just need to make him understand, because I know he would have done the same thing. If it were Granger, or Weasley, he would have made the same choice as me. He’s just too proud to think that he’s as weak as I am.

“Were you planning this all along?” Harry asks quietly, and for a moment there’s something so hateful about his face that he looks like a different person. I’m so distracted by this shift, by this man who I can never imagine looking at me with any sort of fondness, that I can’t think of any way of responding. “Right from the beginning, is this what you wanted?”

“What? No, I wasn’t…”

“When you first asked me to meet you, Malfoy,” Harry continues, “When you told me you wanted to help, was that all part of some plan to gain my trust? So you could get information and hand me over to You Know Who?” He steps towards me, and I see the wand in his hand. The one in my pocket doesn’t belong to me, and I haven’t been able to get it to do much other than omit a few weak sparks so far. If he attacks me, I’ve got no chance. Not that I’d want to fight back. I have no reason to hurt him- I’ve done enough of that already.

“Just listen to me,” I plead, half reaching out to him because I can’t help that, wanting to be closer. The last few months have made it instinctual to want to comfort him when I see him like this, to kiss him and hold him close, and it’s all I can do to stay still. “Please, Harry. I can explain.” He raises his eyebrows expectantly, already doubtful that I have a decent justification. I take a deep breath and start telling him what happened that night. “One of the spies I spoke to, I shouldn’t have trusted him. He ran off to the Dark Lord as soon as he had enough information to condemn me. I wouldn’t talk, I didn’t want to, he tortured me but I stayed quiet, kept trying to convince him there wasn’t any truth in the rumor. And, my mother. He- he killed my mother, because I wouldn’t talk. I thought he was going to kill me, and I was okay with that, but instead… She wasn’t meant to be involved, I tried so hard not to get her involved.” This is the first time I’ve talked about it out loud, and the words keep tumbling from my lips, and I want him to show some kindness, some compassion, but his face doesn’t change. He doesn’t care about my mother. Why would he? He’s never said a kind word about her.

Tears sting my eyes and I don’t brush them away, I just let them fall. My mum is dead, and it’s because I tried to help him and Harry doesn’t even _care._

“Harry. He threatened to kill Astoria too- he would have. Do you think she deserved to die because of my mistakes?”

“Do you think any of _my friends_ deserved to die because of you?” Harry shouts, snapping suddenly, and I flinch, backing against the door. “Sixteen people are _dead_ because you valued your happiness over everything else! We could have all died because you don’t _think_ about anyone else besides yourself.”

“Harry, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.” Damn, I wish I could stop crying. Maybe then my argument would sound convincing. Maybe I’d seem less like a coward terrified of losing anyone else. “What if it was your friend? What if it was… Hermione? And You Know Who gave you the chance to save her life, at the cost of giving up information, what would you do?”

He falters, and I almost feel like it’s a victory. He’s no better than me, not when it comes to making stupid decisions to save the people we love. Voldemort’s forced me into these choices before, made me do terrible things because he warned me he would kill me, kill my parents. But Harry once caused the death of his godfather by blindly believing Voldemort’s deceptions.

“We’re trying to fight a war,” he says, and we both know that’s not really an answer, “Do you not understand that?”

“What would you have me do, Potter? Would you rather that I had died?”

“No, of course not. That’s not what I’m saying-”

“So you think I should have let Astoria die instead?” I’m practically shouting now too, not caring that the others are in the next room, that they can hear every word we’re saying.

“I don’t want anyone to die,” Harry says, “But there’s… You have to do the honorable thing. I just thought you knew that.”

I hate that he fooled himself into thinking I’m a good person, someone he could be proud to call an ally. What have I ever done to convince him that I’d make the right choice, that I’d be willing to sacrifice someone I love for some war that I hardly even care about?

Though, talking with Liam and his friends, watching the determination in their faces when they discuss their next move, and the look of disappointment in Harry’s eyes now, it almost makes me want to care. And maybe I _could_ be that person, the sort of man who fights instead of fleeing and hiding, prepared to lose people because it’s worth it to save dozens more. Part of me wishes, desperately, that I could be capable of that.

Maybe then Harry would think that I’m worth his time.

“I’m not that guy, Harry. I’m sorry,” I tell him, “I thought I could be, but I couldn’t think properly and I just didn’t want to see her die. You can understand that, right?”

“People are dead, Draco,” His voice is softer now, pained, hurt. “Good people. Friends. Because of you.” He shakes his head and pushes past me towards the door.

“Don’t go,” I say, relieved when he pauses. “I didn’t just ask you here so I could grovel. The people who got my out of prison-“

“I didn’t know you were in prison.”

“Of course I was in prison, I had been passing information on to you. Why do you think I’m hiding out in this place?” There’s a strange look on his face, like he honestly hadn’t considered that anything bad might have happened to me. Surely he’s read the papers? Then again, after recent events, security’s probably tighter. Getting the Prophet might be too much of a risk. “The people who helped me, they’re the same ones who helped your friends escape. They destroyed the Horcrux.”

Harry nods, “Yeah, I thought I felt that.”

“There’re loads of them. They can help.” It feels like an empty promise after all the ones I’ve broken, after all the times I’ve said I wanted to help him and let him down when he most needed me. “They’re here now harry, in the next room, they wanted to talk to you…”

“You really expect me to take your word for that, Malfoy?” Harry asks, scornfully, “You’re a Death Eater, and you’re a coward, and I should never have let myself reconsider that you could be anything else.”

“We’ll take it from here, Draco,” Liam says from the open door leading into the kitchen. I don’t know how long he’s been standing there. “You should get some rest. Henry made you some food,” He walks over and passes me the bowl he was holding, giving a look that I expect is meant to mean, _‘Harry will trust us more if you’re out of the room,’_ but it might just be genuine concern. Either way, I want to get away from Harry, and I want to lie down on a proper bed again, and the meal is warm and smells amazing.

“I’ll stay for ten minutes,” Harry says, ignoring me now, “You better impress me.”

I don’t say anything as he follows Liam through into the next room; he already knows that I’m pathetic and desperate for him to forgive me. And I already know that what we had, whatever it was or could have been, is ruined. Over. Gone.

I try to sleep after I’ve eaten, but with little success. Despite not getting a proper night’s sleep in weeks, I’ve also done little more than just sit around, and after the fight with Harry my mind feels wide awake.

I push away the covers and walk over to the door, hesitating just a moment before pushing it open. I can hear the quiet hum of voices coming from the kitchen and walk over, not seeing why there should be any problem with me joining them. I was the one who started this after all; there wouldn’t be any sort of resistance movement if it weren’t for me.

Even so, when I walk in on them, they all stop talking immediately, turning to look at me as though I’m some sort of intruder.

“I thought you were sleeping,” Someone says, but I don’t know their name.

“I did try.”

“You need to rest.”

“I’ll rest later, alright? I’m an adult, I think I can make my own decisions when it comes to bedtimes.”

_These are the people that broke you out of prison. They saved your life._

I make an effort to soften my features, and add, “Though of course, I’m grateful for your concern.”

I notice that Harry’s the only one not looking at me. Is he planning on ignoring me all evening? Is he going to spend the rest of his life pretending I don’t exist? The thought almost makes me wish he was yelling at me again.

After a few moments, Liam continues the conversation, and it’s so dull that I’m beginning to regret leaving the bedroom. I thought they’d be making some dramatic plan of attack, but they’re mostly just explaining the structure of their group. No one knows the names of all the members, and I can’t really be bothered to listen completely when he talks about how they get information to each other, though it seems to be just a more complicated version of how Harry and I share the locations of our next meetings. Apparently their plan is to continue what I’ve been doing, but on a bigger scale. With members scattered about all areas of Voldemort’s web, it should take a lot less time to get the information they need.

“Surely that also means you’ll be caught easier?” Harry points out, “If there’s a whole group working within the Ministry, seeking to bring it down, that won’t go unnoticed forever.”

“That’s why we’re going to end this fast,” Vanessa replies.

Harry still looks unconvinced. Perhaps out of habit, he looks up at me, like he’s wondering what I think. It seems to take him a second to realize that he’s not meant to care what I think anymore.

“So,” Liam says, “Are you in?”

“I’ll have to talk to my friends, I don’t want to do this secretly.” Yeah, well we both know how well that panned out for him last time.

 

A few days later, I move on to a bed and breakfast outside of London. Liam gave me some Muggle money, enough to last me for a few weeks, and I’m not entirely sure what he expects me to do after that.

That’s where Astoria finds me, and I open the door to find her stood in the corridor, expression cautious, uncertain.

“I wasn’t sure if I should come,” She says, lingering there. “I’m really angry at you.”

“I thought you might be,” I reply, “Do you want a cup of tea?”

“Yes. Alright,” She doesn’t smile as she walks passed me, into the room, and sits down on the edge of the bed. I go about boiling the kettle, glad for something to do whilst we both try and think of what to say.

“Why did you do it, Draco?” She says eventually.

“Why do you think?” She doesn’t answer. “Wouldn’t you do the same for me?”

“No,” Astoria says without hesitation, “I wouldn’t Draco. You can’t place one person’s life above dozens of others. Not to mention the fact that if Harry had died, the war would essentially have been lost.”

“I thought you didn’t care about the war.”

“I didn’t, until I met Harry, until I started actually thinking about it. Sure, I hate that I live in a world where I can’t be with the man I love, but that doesn’t mean I’d ever considered _doing_ something about it,” I turn to look at her, and her eyes are wild with frustration, with her desperation to understand, “ _Merlin_ Draco, you turned your whole life around so you could help this guy, and then you throw it all away for me. Do you know how awful that makes me feel? That so many people are dead because you chose to let me live, it just… Draco whatever I do, I’m never going to be able to shake off the fact that this is my fault.”

I abandon the tea making, but don’t step towards her. “Don’t be ridiculous. I did this, not you.”

“You did it because of me, though.”

“Yes.”

“You’re an idiot. You’re a fucking idiot and I wish I didn’t know you.”

I push away the way her words feel like a stab in the chest, and pour the hot water into cups, adding tea bags and milk and sugar. Harry always used to scoff at the amount of sugar I drink with tea.

“I presume that your father has broken off the engagement,” I say as I pass her one of the cups, in a desperate attempt to return this to one of our old conversations.

“He thought it might tarnish the family name if his grandchildren were the offspring of a traitor.”

“And we’d finally decided on baby names as well,” I comment bitterly, and she almost smiles. This is better, I tell myself, aware that it was entirely selfish and wrong but not caring, this is better than her being dead.

 

Every couple of days, I send out a location to Harry. I suggest cafes and restaurants, and even a museum once. Seeing as he agreed with Liam that the two of them would arrange places to meet if they had something to discuss, Harry must know that I just want to see him, that I’m pathetic and desperate for him to forgive me, for things to go back to how they were. And of course he doesn’t show up. I always wait around for him, but with no luck.

I hardly see anyone these days. Astoria can’t visit often in case she causes suspicion, and I don’t stay in one place for more than three or four days. I saw my face on the Muggle news one night, and now I have to be even more careful.

I always keep Liam updated with my whereabouts, and sometimes he visits to catch me up on what they’re planning. He says one of his friends is trying to set up a school for the kids who were kicked out of Hogwarts over the past few years. I think that just sounds like an insanely dangerous and unnecessary plan, but I keep that to myself.

“How’s Harry?” I say, when there’s a lull in the conversation one morning, immediately cringing at how the question sounds.

“We don’t really talk about anything personal,” Liam answers, and something about his tone makes him sound like he’s picking his words carefully, “But I suppose he’s alright. He, umm… He actually wanted me to ask you to stop trying to get him to meet you. He doesn’t want to see you.”

“I just want to try and make things right.”

Liam furrows his eyebrows, “Just give it time, Malfoy. The way he sees it, any good you’ve done has been rather overshadowed by the bad. Look,” He glances around the hotel room, with its occasionally flickering lights and thin bed sheets, “We’ve found somewhere we can meet regularly without being discovered. If you want to stay there, you’d be very welcome.”

“It can’t be worse than staying in places like this,” I say, hiding my elation. A few months ago, all I wanted was to get my own place, to have somewhere that was mine alone. But after the past few weeks, drifting from impersonal hotel rooms to cheap flats and never staying anywhere long enough to feel like I belong, all I want is to be around other people again.

Besides, at least this way (and I’m sure that this was part of Liam’s reasoning as well) Harry might have no choice but to see me.

The safe house is in Northampton, and appears from the outside to be nothing more than a regular townhouse, though Liam assures me that it was modified during the First Wizarding War by an extremely paranoid, and now deceased, witch- the aunt of one of the resistance fighters.

There are around half a dozen witches and wizards sitting in the downstairs space, and a few of them nod a greeting in my direction.

“Harry and a few of his friends are coming by later,” Liam says as he leads me upstairs, “You can decide for yourself what you want to do.”

 

I try to make it seem like an accident, making my way downstairs a few minutes after I hear them arrive, and going to the kitchen for a drink. I was then planning on walking back through the living room. Harry would look up and see me, _here,_ wanting to help, wanting to be part of the war because it’s the right thing, and I would act like I didn’t know he was here, would say I’d been reading through the papers upstairs. I would say something casual, like _“It’s good to see you, Potter,”_ then I’d leave. And he would apologize to his friends, and get up to follow me, realizing that all he’d really wanted over the past few weeks was to see me-

Except he slightly ruins that when he chooses the same moment as I do to go the kitchen for a drink.

I’m so surprised when I turn around and see him that I drop my glass.

“Shit,” I say under my breath, reaching for my wand and casting a quick repairing charm, forgetting that I still haven’t got the hang of this wand that isn’t mine, and only about half the shards make any attempt to come together again.

Harry raises his eyebrows mockingly. “Let me. _Reparo._ You know,” He picks up the glass and hands it back to me, smirking, “I thought you’d be able to manage that spell.”

“I haven’t quite adjusted to this wand yet,” I say, doing my best to seem nonchalant.

“Right, of course. I forgot that…” His voice trails off, and he pushes his hands into his pockets, then changes his mind and just folds them in front of his chest.

“Potter, I wanted to-”

“I don’t actually want to talk to you. At all. I thought I’d made that clear.”

He’s still standing here though. If he really wanted nothing to do with me, he’d leave. “You act like you’re so superior, like you’ve never made a mistake.”

“I really don’t think that.”

“Oh yeah? So you’ve just been ignoring me because you’ve had a lot else on your plate?”

“I’ve been ignoring you because I have friends who are dead, friends whose brothers and sisters and friends and partners are dead, and-”

“I know. You’ve said all this before,” I snap, sick of hearing the accusations I know I deserve. “So it’s unforgiveable when I make a mistake that leads to dozens of death, yet when you abandon your friends to their fate so you can escape with your life, or when you pick a fight in a Muggle street that leads to innocent civilians getting hurt, or if you lead an attack when you know the odds aren’t in your favor, you expect everyone to still call you a hero?”

“Everything I do is to try and give us an advantage, you just want to protect your little bubble of happiness,” He hisses. This really isn’t how I wanted this conversation to go. I had, quite foolishly, thought that the past few weeks would have made him realize just how much he needs me around, that he’d have missed me as much as I missed him.

“Tell me how to make things right,” I plead, “I screwed up my whole life because of you, I don’t know what I’m doing, I don’t… I don’t know how to be like you, or any of these people. I’ve done so many terrible things, Harry, and I know you don’t believe me, but I am really trying my best to change.”

Harry looks at me, and I think for a moment that he might say something kind, and before I made a mess of things this would be the point when he would kiss me, but I’m not stupid enough to think he’s going to do that now. “I do believe you, Draco,” He says sadly, “You’re just doing it wrong. You say you’re trying to change, but so far all you’ve done is continue to place your own happiness above everything else, and that’s no different from the way you’ve always been.”

It’s at that point that Hermione walks in, her eyes widening slightly when she sees me. “Harry, we were just wondering if you were coming back…” She says hesitantly. She’s wearing a baggy t-shirt; perhaps her baby bump is starting to show.

“Don’t worry, I won’t keep him any longer,” I say with a smile, and make to leave.

“Malfoy, wait,” Hermione calls out, “I wanted to talk to you, actually.”

“If you want to tell me about what a despicable human I am, don’t waste your breath, Harry’s already made that quite clear.”

“No, that’s not what…”

“Hermione...” Harry says, something like a warning.

“I never thought you were capable of anything other than simply doing whatever kept you safe and powerful,” She says, her tone clipped and formal. I realize this is the first time I’ve really spoken to her since the day she was on trial, the day Potter’s friends kidnapped me and my life was turned upside down. Even when I was a prisoner, I don’t think she came down to the cells to speak to me. Or if she did, I’ve forgotten about it. “I just want you to know that, whatever your reasons are for doing something more, I’m glad that I was wrong about you.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that he betrayed us,” Harry says, turning his back to me so he can address Hermione.

“Yes, I know that. I’m still happy to hear that you’re our ally, Malfoy,” She smiles shakily and holds out her hand for me to shake, “You’ve turned out to be capable of more than I thought.”

I take her hand, a little reluctantly, and bite back a retort about how the same could be said for her.

“Harry was happier, you know, when you were in his life,” Hermione says conspiratorially, leaning in close.

Harry grabs her arm and pulls her away, a little pink, “We should rejoin the others,” He says, and leaves the room without looking back at me.

 

One afternoon I find myself alone on the house, having finally found the article about my mother’s death. They say that she killed herself after finding out that I was a traitor; they use her death to further encourage hatred towards me. Then a woman, I think her name is Emeraude, bursts in, looking desperately around until her eyes find me.

“You’re the only one here?” She asks breathlessly. I gesture to the empty, quiet room, assuming that will answer her question. “Someone’s betrayed us.”

“Well, before you ask, it wasn’t me.”

“I never said it was.”

“Most other people would.”

She exhales slowly, and sits down on the chair opposite me, “Someone interfered with our communication system, sent a false location to Potter.”

I put the paper down, my stomach lurching, “How do you know?”  
“I heard people talking today, I work in the Auror department.” _Auror._ That word doesn’t mean the same as it used to, and I can almost hear Harry’s disgusted sigh. “They’re planning on ambushing Potter, haven’t even told You Know Who about it because they don’t want someone else taking the glory. From what I’ve heard, they’re meeting him in a few minutes. I left the Ministry as soon as it wasn’t suspicious for me to do so.”

I stand up without thinking, my mind reeling, “We have to go then, otherwise they’ve got no chance.”

“What, just the two of us?” Emeraude scoffs. “I expect there are at least a _dozen_ of them. Don’t be insane.”

“We can’t just wait here and do nothing!” And she has the audacity to call _me_ insane.

“I was hoping to find a few others here. Seeing as it’s just you, I suppose I’ll have to call for the rest of them, then we’ll go when there’s enough of us to have a chance.”

By that time Harry could be dead. “Give me the address, I’ll go to them, maybe I can stop them.”

“With a wand you can hardly use?”

“I’ve been practicing. Give me the address.”

“Fine,” She stands and walks over to the writing desk, scribbling down the location and hands over the small piece of paper. It’s somewhere in London, and though I don’t know the exact place, I’ve been to one of the nearby streets, and I can travel the rest of the way on foot. “The rest of us will get there as soon as we can.”

I leave the house, and Disapperate once I’m on the street outside.

Then I run, not caring about Emeraude’s warnings. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I just sat by and let something happen to him, let him die because I was preoccupied with worrying.

I don’t know the streets well, but fortunately there aren’t many people around so I don’t have to try and navigate my way around crowds. A couple of times I have to double back, go down a different road, and every time I do I’m filled with fear that I’ll be too late, that I’m taking too much time. Who could it have been, that somehow infiltrated the group? Well, like Harry said, with so many members, it was bound to happen eventually. People are too preoccupied with their own glory, it’s no wonder that the Ministry is filled with snitches, people with good intentions originally, who throw all that aside when they realize that they have a chance to make a name for themselves some other way.

I whirl around a corner, finally passing the right street sign, and practically crash into one of the Weasleys.

“Oi, watch it mate- _Malfoy?”_

I ignore him, and meet Harry’s bewildered gaze. “Someone leaked your location. You need to go, now.”

He opens his mouth to reply, and then a curse blasts into the wall behind us, spraying broken brick everywhere, and I lose my balance, falling to the ground. Harry reaches out his hand and pulls me up, but he’s gone before I can thank him.

Everyone acts quickly, firing back at the attackers, and I do my best but all my spells are weak and badly aimed. Emeraude was right; I’m really not much help here.

“Surrender, Potter,” One guy shouts. They’re close enough now that we can’t risk Disapperating in case one of them grabs hold of us.

“I think you severely overestimate how intimidated I am by you,” Harry says calmly. He doesn’t see the woman stood the other side of him, as she raises her wand to attack him, but I do. And I know that woman, I’ve fought by her side before, seen her use curses I’ve never seen cast by anyone else. She moves her wrist, preparing to attack, and as she starts to speak, I pull Harry out of the way and step into her path.

The spell crashes into my chest and I collapse. I didn’t see the color of the curse, it all happened too fast, and for a moment I wonder whether it was the killing curse, that this moment as I fall is the last one I have.

Then I land on the ground and there’s pain, everywhere. I can’t move, but I know I’m not dead. I almost wish I was. There’s more fighting around me, but I feel distant from it now. When I try to breathe it’s like my lungs are filled with needles, useless and burning with the pain. There’s a hand on my head, fingers running through my hair, gently stroking my face, and I try to focus on that.

“Keep your eyes open, Draco. Please,” A voice says above me, and a part of me wonders if it’s Harry. I dismiss that thought, knowing that Harry doesn’t care any more whether I live or die. Still, it’s nice to imagine him, worrying about me, caressing my hair. So I let myself dream, and do my best to hold onto that.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POV: Harry Potter
> 
> “So, how are you feeling?” I ask, the words sounding thick and heavy and forced.   
> I’m expecting him to reply with some sarcastic remark, but he just looks up at me, and says “Not great.” His hand passes over his face, rubbing at his eyes wearily. “I want to do what’s right,” He says solemnly, “So many of you have given years to this fight, have lost so much, and I think I want to help. In any way I can. I’m not just going to stay here and take advantage of the good hospitality.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to anyone still reading! I know it was another long wait for an update, I'd written most of the chapter and then lost it, and I struggled to find the willpower to rewrite it. But FINALLY here it is. I think there are probably (hopefully) only three chapters left now. As always, comments and kuods are appreciated and motivate me to keep writing. xx

“He can’t stay here,” Ron says, his voice stern but regretful, half an apology despite the fact I know that he’d not exactly sorry about Draco’s current state. Rumors have started to go around about Draco and I, and though I’m sure that no one knows for certain, Ron knows _something._ Maybe that’s why he looks at me with something like pity when he stops me on my way to our infirmary, as if to say _love never really works out for you, does it Harry?_

When Draco fell this morning, hit by a curse that I didn’t even realize was coming my way until it took him down, I thought for a moment that he might be dead. I felt my whole body lurch, like something collapsed inside of me.

I sigh, and look Ron in the eye. I know he’s just looking out for me, for all of us, but that doesn’t make this any less infuriating. “Why not?”

“Because-“ Ron snaps, then exhales slowly and shakes his head. “He’s not the sort of person who deserves our forgiveness, surely you see that?”

“I’m not asking you to praise the ground he walks on,” I say sharply, “Just…”

“What?” I look away, and his expression softens slightly, “I’m not going out of my way to argue, you know, but it’s not like this guy has a good track record.”

“He could have died today.” I think of how limp his body had been when we Disapperated, when I carried him into the base. It wasn’t a spell any of us had seen before, but we’ve come across curses developed by individual Death Eaters, cruel and painful, a handful of other times over the past few years. Sometimes we haven’t been able to figure out a way to reverse its affects, but this time we were lucky.

“That doesn’t make him a good man.”

“I never said he was.” I’d started to wonder though, before it went wrong, had begun to hope that he might be. “I need to see him,” I say, pushing past Ron and through the doors. There are only three beds, and Draco’s is the only one that’s occupied. I’ve spent the hours since we arrived here trying to convince everyone that he should stay, that we should help him. Of course I understand why so many people hate him, I hated him for a while, but I’m also certain that he won’t make the same mistake again. He’s right, I don’t know what I would have done if I was faced with the same choice as he was, and the more I’ve gone over and over what happened, the more I’ve been filled with doubt and uncertainty, and I’m running out of reasons to blame him.

It’s even harder to blame him when I see him lying there, when I remember the way his body shook after the curse hit him, marked where his veins had turned black beneath his skin. He looks better now, I think as I approach his body. I could have lost him. All chance of fixing this would have been gone. I have to try and put it right, have to forgive him. He’s done plenty to prove that he’s on our side.

If it was anyone else, everyone would have at least tried to understand, but Draco’s history, and the fact I kept our meetings secret, has just made everything so _difficult._

My nightmares have been worse since I ended things between us. I’ve barely slept more than a few hours a night, and even sleeping potions don’t work.

Narcissa’s death is my fault, so is Alexander’s, and everyone else who died that night. I should never have dragged Draco into this.

I sit down on the chair by his bed, hands clasped beneath my chin.

“Hermione says he’ll be okay,” Ron says. I’d forgotten he was even here. I didn’t notice him follow me. I’m not even sure how long I was standing, thinking about this mess- it could have been seconds, or several minutes.

“I thought you didn’t care.”

“I don’t, not really,” He sighs. “But you do.” He walks around to stand at the other side of the bed, pushing his hands into his pockets. “I still don’t think it’s a good idea for him to stay here- we have good reason not to trust him. And, you know, lots of people want him dead. Lots of our friends.”

“They’ll have to go through me,” I say evenly, and I see in his face that he knows I’m deadly serious. “He could have disappeared after Liam and his friends broke him out, but he stuck around, kept helping us. Don’t you think the least he deserves is for us to put a little faith in him?”

“Harry, it’s not that- I’m honestly not deliberately going against you on this, okay? I’m just trying to tell you what everyone’s thinking.”

A hundred cruel remarks threaten to spill out, but I hold them back. I know, logically, that Ron is doing his best to help me, that he’s not my enemy. I _know_ I should be nothing but grateful towards him. It’s just that there’s another part of my brain, a part that feels like it’s growing stronger all the time, that’s determined to push him away. I want to push them all away. They think that it would be easy to cut off ties completely with Malfoy, that I should be able to just turn my back on him completely.

“People have been saying other things about Malfoy, you know…” Ron says when I don’t reply to him, “About you and him.”

Of course they have; people love to gossip. Especially about me.

“Were you… _dating?_ ”

“Yeah,” I say, almost smiling at the thought of how our relationship was rarely so simple, “I guess we were.” I look up to meet his gaze, “You don’t seem surprised.”

“I was pretty sure you were seeing someone, mate. You didn’t come home most nights and, well,” He shrugs, “You were happy.”

“Didn’t last long.”

“What were you expecting from dating Malfoy?”

Yeah, he has a point. I can’t remember when I stopped seeing this as anything more than a distraction.

“I’m sorry I kept it a secret, I wasn’t thinking straight.”

“I sort of guessed that,” Ron says with a smirk. I roll my eyes. He starts to leave, stopping as he walks past me to pat me on the shoulder. “Don’t do anything rash,” He says, “I really think we’re close to finishing this.”

“We’ve been saying that for five years now.”

“I think it might be true this time.”

Once he’s left the room, I sit quietly for a few minutes, my eyes on Draco, on the rise and fall of his chest, but my thoughts are elsewhere. There was hope in Ron’s voice, and I’ve seen the same hope so many times over the past few weeks, on the faces of friends, allies, when we discuss plans that no longer seem futile and pointless. It’s a strange thing, to allow myself to consider the fact that I might have a life once this is over, that it could become reality within a matter of months.

I could have a house. My son could come home, and I’d find a place for us, and I’d do whatever job I could to make his life amazing, to make up for all the years I’ve missed. I was going to try and see him this Christmas, but things are more dangerous than they were last time I went over to Europe, and I don’t know whether I can risk it.

Besides, if Ron’s right, this time next year I might not even have to worry about making sure it’s safe enough to see James.

What about Draco? Where would he fit into my life? I wish, I _wish_ that all the things that make things complicated between us could just become unimportant.

I rub at my forehead; I can’t work out whether this headache is from exhaustion or the effort of resisting Voldemort’s thoughts, the presence of his mind always, _always,_ pushing against mine.

I reach out and take Draco’s hand (he’s always had soft hands, not that it’s a surprise- I can’t imagine that he’s had to do much hard work in his life- but they’re dryer now, and there’s dirt under his fingernails) and it’s enough to push thoughts of Voldemort out of my mind for a moment.

I’ve often wondered if sleeping beside Draco every night might slowly chase away the dark stains on my soul, the parts of me I know Voldemort has infected.

“ _Merlin’s beard,_ ” I say out loud, shaking my head, “I really think I might have fallen for you, Draco.” My words sound too loud in this room, and the reality of how much I care about him washes over me now that I’ve said it, now that it’s more that just a voice in the back of my thoughts that I’ve been trying to push aside recently. “The last person I was in love with was Ginny,” I continue, part of me hoping that he doesn’t hear, the other half knowing that some things might be simpler if he does, “I thought… We’d planned out our whole lives together. We didn’t expect to have a baby, wished that it had happened in more peaceful times, but it didn’t really matter, we were going to make it work. Everything went to hell when she was killed…” My voice trails off, the dull pain of losing her choking my words. I breathe slowly, pushing it away. “With you, I started to hope for happiness again.”

I wasn’t expecting him to react, to open his eyes, but when he doesn’t I can’t help but feel a twinge of disappointment.

 

I think I finally fall asleep in that chair, and when I wake up again my arm is stiff and sore from holding Draco’s hand. I gently pull away and look at my watch- it’s been nearly an hour. My headache isn’t as bad now, so that’s something.

Draco groans quietly, and I sit up sharply, watching him intently. His expression tenses into a frown, and he slowly opens his eyes. After a few moments, he turns his head to look at me, “What happened?” He says, his voice quiet and hoarse.

“You don’t remember?”

“Feels like I was hit by a train…” He mutters, “Did you finally get sick of me?”

My stomach twists uncomfortably. “You took a curse for me.”

“Are you sure? That doesn’t sound like me.” Draco looks away again, eyes on the ceiling, and I struggle to think of what to say. “Where am I?”

“Secret base.”

“Prison’s a lot fancier than last time I was here,” He says dryly.

“It’s the infirmary,” I run my hands through my hair, smothering my guilt. The circumstances of meeting him again were far from perfect, and usually I try to forget about it, even though I know that Draco hasn’t. I can’t even remember whether I ever properly apologized for it.

Draco raises his eyebrows slightly, “Your friends are okay with me being here?” I hesitate and he smiles. “You must feel really bad about me getting hurt because of you.”

“I didn’t ask you to,” I snap.

“I know, it’s… I remember now.”

“If you were trying to earn my forgiveness, you didn’t have to-“

“That’s not what I was doing. I wasn’t thinking about…” Draco sighs, “I just wanted to save you.” His voice is soft, honest, no attempt to hide his emotions, and I’m torn again, because I know that this is never going to be easy, and that the war still isn’t over, but all I want is to drag him back into my life and not consider the consequences. “You’ve got so many people in your life, Harry,” Draco continues, with that same confessional tone, “People you care about, who care about you, and you act like you’re so lonely and misunderstood but do you have _any_ idea how many people would miss you if you died? But me, I’ve got barely anybody anymore, it’s my own fault, I’m not saying that- point is, I couldn’t bare to lose you. That’s all I was thinking about when I rushed to save you, when I took that curse for you. The thought of you _dying,_ it was just…” He smiles bitterly, self mockingly, “Hurt like hell though. I’m not doing it again. Save your own damn life next time.”

I always wish he didn’t brush off his honest feelings before I have time to react, like he’s already presumed I think less of him, that I don’t feel the same way. “Yeah, you’d better not do anything that stupid again,” I say, “I’m not too fond of the idea of losing you.”

“You’ve made it pretty clear that-”

“I was angry, and upset, but that doesn’t mean I want you dead, or to get hurt because of me. Don’t you think I’m sick of everyone close to me being in danger?” I sit back in my chair, wishing Draco would turn his head to look at me instead of staring up at the ceiling. “Fuck, if I could run away to some distant Greek Island with you and hide out there for the rest of my life, I’d do it in a heartbeat.”

That makes him look at me, smiling- one of those smiles that’s like dawn breaking and brightening his face with its warmth. “Why don’t we, then?”

“I’d probably get bored,” I admit.

“Not many opportunities for heroism on our island retreat,” Draco says. There’s a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. Then it fades, and he looks sad again, tired, and I notice for the first time since he woke up the shadows under his eyes, the sharpness of his face, the grey tinge to his skin. “I know you don’t want to hear it, Harry, but I’m sorry, I should have been more careful, I shouldn’t have let You Know Who manipulate me like that. As soon as I can stand again, I’ll be gone, I’m not like you; I’m not suited for this war.”

I lean forwards and take his hand again, clasping it in mine and pressing his fingers to my lips. “If that’s what you want, I won’t stop you. But there’s a place for you _here,_ and I know that you’re capable of fighting with us. I’m not going to force you to, but I really don’t think you should just run from this.” Draco gives me a strange look, like he’s shocked that I think he has a place in this war, a place on our side. “You should rest,” I tell him, “I need to talk with everyone, and we’ll figure it all out once you have your strength back. Just… get some sleep.” I know he’s not a coward. He wouldn’t have kept meeting me, helping me, if he was. I _know_ there’s more to him than everyone thinks, than even he thinks.

 

I try to explain that at the meeting the next day, as my friends and allies steal doubtful glances at each other when they think I’m not looking. “We’ve got all sorts of people living here,” I say, “People with no where else to go, who have lost everything and have made mistakes… And we’ve all had to do things we regret to stay alive,” I pause, looking down at my hands resting on the table in front of me, “I know I have. I’m not asking you all to forgive him for every mistake he’s made, and the damage he’s caused, I’m just…” I sigh, feeling the weight of everyone’s gazes on me, of their judgment and skepticism. “Just give him a chance to do something _good_ with his life, he deserves that much.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that there are people who would very happily kill him for betraying us, for getting so many of _us_ murdered,” Seamus says, and I know that he’s saying it to remind me of the flaws in my plan, to make sure I know that my decision will not exactly receive complete approval.

“Like I said to Ron,” I say, meeting Seamus’ gaze calmly, “Anyone who has a problem with him will have to take it up with me.”

They all sit quietly, disapproving but not wanting to argue, until Neville speaks. “I agree with Harry,” He says, “Malfoy deserves a chance to make things right. And we all know that our lives are at risk, doing what we do, we could have lost the same number even if Malfoy hadn’t given up the information.”

“That’s not all the bad he’s done though,” George points out, “The guy was a Death Eater.”

“Well we can’t throw him out!” Hermione says, “He could end up getting caught by You Know Who again, he could kill him. Do we really want that on our conscience? He’s tried to help us as much as he can, and he didn’t have to, and now there’s a price on his head.” George looks like he’s about to argue, then decides against it. The room relaxes in a way that assures me that, although not everyone is completely happy with the idea, they’re not going to actively try and kick Draco out.

Maybe I can make this work after all.

 

There are a few empty rooms, left unoccupied due to the losses we’ve suffered recently, and Draco moves into one of them once he’s recovered. I don’t tell Draco that they’re empty because so many of the people who lived here died because of him.

He sits down on the single bed like he’s worried it’s a trap, in clothes that aren’t his and don’t really fit him, a different Draco from the one I’ve come to know.

I linger in the doorway, not sure what he’s expecting from me. “You, umm, don’t have to stay. If you don’t want to.”

He looks up, frowning deeply, “Do you not want me here?”

“No, no I want you to stay, but I’d understand if…” _If you don’t want to be with me._

“Here’s as good as anywhere else,” He says offhandedly. “This place feels safer than where I was staying before though.” His words sound empty, tired. I wonder what life must have been like for him over the past few weeks, after losing everything, and I want to reach out to him, but I can’t think of what to say. I don’t know where to begin to apologize for the things I said, or whether I even _should_ apologize.

“So, how are you feeling?” I ask, the words sounding thick and heavy and forced.

I’m expecting him to reply with some sarcastic remark, but he just looks up at me, and says “Not great.” His hand passes over his face, rubbing at his eyes wearily. “I want to do what’s right,” He says solemnly, “So many of you have given _years_ to this fight, have lost so much, and I think I want to help. In any way I can. I’m not just going to stay here and take advantage of the good hospitality.”

I nod. It’s dangerous, and my heart aches for the fact that there really is no way for us to avoid the peril of this war, but a part of me is glad too. I’m relieved that I was right about him, that he will help, that he’ll prove everyone who thinks he’s just allying himself with whoever he thinks is most powerful wrong.

He looks away from me, his beautiful blonde hair falling over his face as he looks at his feet. I hate that I’ve caused him this pain, that because of me he has lost his mother and the life he had before.

The more I see of him though, all these pieces that he’s gradually allowing me to see, some of them broken and sharp and pushed out of sight, the more I realize how much I’ve fallen in love with him.

“A lot of people are pretty angry that you’re here,” I say when the silence gets too long, even though I know there’s no way he could think that he’s completely welcome. “I don’t think any of them will try to hurt you, but be careful.”

“I think I can handle myself.”

“I know, but…”

“Potter, I don’t need your pity,” He says. I try to tell myself that it’s not me he’s angry at, even though he has every right to be. It’s impossible to pretend that it would be easy to go back to everything being perfect between us, to put everything that happened behind us and fall back into each other’s lives without blinking. I’m angry at him too, though I’ve also forgiven him, knowing how easy it is to be consumed by hate and rage and vengeance, and wanting to stay as far from that life as I can.

“You know I don’t pity you.” I step into the room, finally deciding better than lingering by the door.

“You still think you’re better than me,” He says, like it’s an undeniable fact. “I mean, you’d be _right._ At least you’ve done something with your life, you’ve become someone worth fighting for, and I’m not even worth fighting _with._ ”

“This isn’t exactly the life I’d have chosen,” I say. He looks up at me like he’s half accusing me of dragging him into this, and half filled with a sort of admiration, even though I feel an immediate need to deny that could be the case as soon as I understand his expression. I don’t want him to know that I think he admires me- it’d only serve to convince him further of my vanity.

“That doesn’t change the fact that you’re good at it, at making people follow you,” He says evenly. His hands pull at the material of the bed sheet beneath him.

It’s late, and though it’s been one of those days when not enough has happened for me to feel like I deserve to sleep (whenever we have a quiet day I only become more convinced that it will be a busy night, or that I should use the night to toil away over books and news articles, or practicing spells) my body feels weary, my mind sluggish. I fail to think of any parting words, and turn to leave with little more than a strained smile.

“I’m ready to follow you too,” Draco says, so softly that at first I think I’ve imagined it. “Properly this time- not just as an excuse to see you. I don’t care what happens to me, I just want You Know Who gone.”

I don’t turn to look at him, afraid that he’ll see my thoughts too clearly on my face. I _care_ what happens to him, so much more than I ever imagined I would, and in some ways I wish that I could have kept him away from this part of my life, that he could have stayed a secret, an escape from this fight.

 

The next day at breakfast the room goes quiet as Draco walks in, collecting a bowl of porridge and some toast from those on kitchen duty this week (a few of my friends suggested that Draco should start work there, whilst he gets used to this place) and pauses, looking around until he meets my gaze. I incline my head to the empty seat opposite me, and after a moment’s hesitation, he makes his way over. He holds his head high enough not to look uncomfortable or afraid, but not in a way that makes him seem like he thinks he’s superior, and I have to admire him for that.

Conversation starts again, no one quite confident enough to make a scene, and Draco sits down amongst my friends. I honestly wasn’t expecting him to join us, had pictured him hiding out in his room, but now I realize that I was really just hoping for it, to avoid this.

He eats quietly, seemingly unbothered by the silent conversation going on around him, my friends looking from each other to me with raised eyebrows, slight jerks of their heads, eyes widening as they try to work out who should speak first.

I hadn’t imagined these two halves of my life colliding life this, in the calm of breakfast and restrained anger.

In the end it’s Luna that speaks first, asking Draco to pass the plate of butter towards her. He looks up, expression pleasant enough, and I can’t work out whether he remembers her at all, not that it matters. He does as she asks, almost smiling, and she thanks him politely. I’m exceptionally grateful towards her, as I so often am.

Then George starts talking about a device he’s developed which will attach itself to whoever it’s aimed at, sticking to them for several hours so that we can track them. “Even if they notice it, it’s impossible to remove until the spell wears off,” He says proudly.

“So if we run into someone on the Hit List…” Ron says, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes at the name for our list of top targets that everyone has started using thanks to him.

“We don’t have to risk going directly after them,” George finishes, taking a bite of toast.

“It won’t work,” Draco says bluntly.

George looks like he wants to punch him. “Why not?”

“Because there’s no way it’s more powerful than the protective charms around whatever top secret location you’re hoping to follow these people to.”

“You don’t think I thought about that?” George says, grinning now, “So far the only thing that can destroy it is the six to eight hours it takes for the spell to wear off, and believe me, I’ve tested everything.”

Draco nods, impressed, and goes back to eating his breakfast.

“Are you still good at potions, Draco?” Hermione asks suddenly, her expression bright and curious, “I remember you were one of the best at school.”

He looks a little taken aback, and shrugs dismissively. “Haven’t had much of a chance to practice, but I can’t see any reason why not. Why?”

Hermione looks over to me, as though asking for my approval, and I give her a small nod. “Our potions team isn’t very big here,” She says, “Most people are more enthusiastic in dueling and more… Aggressive tactics. We could use your help, if you’d be interested.”

“So that I can stay locked up here where you can all keep an eye on me?” Draco says, his tone taking on a casual anger that makes me wonder whether I was wrong to dismiss my friends’ insistence that letting him stay here was a mistake.

Hermione doesn’t flinch though. “That’s not what I meant at all. I was _actually_ giving you a chance to rest and… adjust. A couple of days ago you were hit by a curse that could have killed you, that sort of thing can make it difficult to get back out there. Not to forget that most of the people you’d be fighting _know_ you, and probably have personal reasons for wanting to take you down, and if you rush into it you could get yourself killed.”

“Besides,” Ron says, a little too bitterly, “We’ve all been fighting together for years, we know how best to attack together, how to fight so that our defense is strong too, and it could really screw things up if you get caught up in it.”

Draco takes a bite of toast and chews mechanically. I sort of get the feeling that he’s holding back a retort that would end up with someone leaping over the table to kick him in the face.

I sigh. “I think we can agree that once everyone is satisfied that you’re not…” I wince in anticipation of my next word, “A liability, no one will have a problem with you going out into the field. But you’re still recovering from that curse you took, and there’s no need to take unnecessary risks.”

“You do it all the time.”

“I take the time to rest when I need to.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Bullshit.”

“Honestly,” George says, “If we all took the same risks as Harry, most of us would be dead within a week. Take a few days off, so that you’re actually worth something to us when we do fight together.”

_“Fine,”_ Draco says. “I’ll help with the potions.”

“That’s great,” Hermione says, and there’s nothing about her tone that suggests her enthusiasm is forced, and I can’t help but wonder why she seems to find no difficulty in being civil to him, when she has as much reason, if not more, than most not to be.

Conversation continues, a little forced at times, but without disagreements. Mail arrives a few minutes later, a handful of letters that changes hands nearly a dozen times before it reaches us here. The middle aged witch who collects the mail from a site in Oxford hands an envelope to me as she walks past, and I stare at the familiar looped writing on the front.

“It’s from Molly,” I say, careful to sound neither worried nor excited. Draco raises his eyebrows questioningly, and I clarify for his sake, “Mrs Weasley… Her and her husband are in hiding, taking care of my son.”

“You don’t think that…” Ron starts to say, but I don’t answer, and just tear the envelope open, thoughts whirling with possibilities. As I read, I breathe a sigh of relief, and pass the letter around.

“They don’t think it’ll be possible to visit this year,” I say to Hermione as George takes the letter, Ron reading over his shoulder. Their other brothers are staying elsewhere for now- Charlie working with a group in the north, Bill working in Europe, Percy in America last we heard.

“Harry, I’m sorry…”

“It’s fine, I didn’t think it would happen. But James is fine, and they’re all safe, and they’re staying with Andromeda and Teddy again.”

At the mention of Andromeda, Draco’s features light up. He asks about her, and I tell her all I know. I tell him about Teddy too, because even though he doesn’t ask, I know he’s curious. What a wonderful mess of a family we’d have, I think, if we all get through this war.

 

After breakfast, we all reluctantly fall into the day’s routine. I go with Ron and Angelina to stake out a warehouse, after reports of it being used to imprison and torment Muggles. We’ve seen it a few times before, those that won’t be missed too much disappearing in the night, their misery made into sport for bored witches and wizards. The Ministry doesn’t encourage it, exactly, but they don’t do anything to stop it either.

By the time we get there this morning, the place is empty. There are traces of spells and curses, but nobody hanging around. We find a place where we can observe most of the space without being spotted, and prepare to crouch in the shadows for the rest of the day.

“I heard that breakfast could have gone better,” Angelina says once we all find a comfortable enough place to sit, passing around a thermos of coffee.

“It was fine,” I dismiss. “Better than I’d expected, really.”

“Well,” She steals a glance at Ron, her expression cautious and I can already guess what she’s going to say, “He’s not much like Ginny, is he?”

“No,” I look at Ron too, but his head is turned away, “Everyone loved her,” I pause. “I’m not trying to replace her.”

“No one thinks that,” Ron says sternly. “We just think Malfoy’s sort of a prick.”

“I know, but… He’s really trying to change. He wouldn’t have done so much if he wasn’t committed to that.”

“That doesn’t mean- we’re not all gonna become best friends with him overnight and give him our blessing.”

“I’m not asking for that. You’re just being childish.”

“Wow, I wish I’d never mentioned it…” Angelina mutters. I just wish that Ron wasn’t so determined to not like Draco.

“It’s not childish, the guy was a Death Eater six months ago.”

“And now he’s not.”

Ron shakes his head. “I know that. Maybe the rest of us just don’t see what it is that makes you so determined to dismiss everything else.”

I don’t answer him after that, don’t want to have to try and explain myself, to explain my feelings. After a few minutes, Angelina starts to talk about something else, clearly regretting bringing up Malfoy. We know that technically we shouldn’t be talking when we’re keeping watch on a potentially dangerous area, but we could be here for hours and sitting in silence for that long would be practically unbearable.

It’s been nearly five hours when we hear a disturbance by the side door. I ease myself into a half standing position, my legs complaining after being stuck in one position for so long, to get a better look. The stranger is in his late forties, maybe fifties, unshaven, his clothes scruffy and too big for him, looking around the empty space a little fearfully.

_“Muggle,”_ I mouth to Angelina and Ron. I step out of our hiding place, gesturing to them to stay in case he’s alarmed by all three of us, and make my way over to him.

His eyes widen when he spots me and he starts to stumble backwards, “I’m sorry,” He says, “I thought this place was empty.”

“It’s fine,” I say calmly. “I’m trying to help. I heard some people had gone missing.”

He pauses, looking around to the door he came through, and back to me. “I don’t want any trouble.”

“I promise I’m not involved in what’s been going on. I want to find the people who are.”

The man keeps his distance, still looking wary, but relaxing a little. “Few of my friends disappeared last week, I asked around, some woman told me she reckoned they’d been brought here. Said some crazy shit had been going down here- but that happens all the time now, doesn’t it? People dying without a cause, freak weather, people go missing or get killed and you try and get the police involved, but then someone steps in and suddenly the police act like they don’t know you… Some saying that it’s drugs, but I don’t know.”

“Yeah.” I nod, “It’s something bigger than drugs. It’s got to be. You didn’t see anyone hanging around here, did you?”

“Saw a few last night, down the streets. But they were wearing masks,” He casts his gaze around the room, “I reckon they’ve gone now, cleared out.”

“Probably. You don’t know anything else? Has this happened before?”

“Sure, people go missing from time to time, but this is different. I’m sure of it.”

Not that there’s anything we can do. The muggles are probably dead by now, and even if we knew who had been involved we couldn’t exactly have gone after them. Just another wasted day, unable to achieve any good.

“You don’t want to involve yourself in this,” The man says, “I know what they do to people who know too much.” I raise my eyebrows, inviting him to go on. “They wipe their memories, don’t know how they do it, but they do. Sometimes it goes wrong, and they wipe everything, and people don’t even know who they are anymore. Believe me, you don’t want to get mixed up in this.”  
“I’m afraid it’s too late for me to stay away,” I say. I wonder whether it’s safe to just let him leave, but the way he talked about others having their memories edited sent shivers up my spine and I don’t have the stomach to do the same to him. I thank him for his time, remind him to be careful, and watch him leave.

“This is a waste of time,” I snap to Ron and Angelina as I walk back over to them. “Whatever they did to those poor muggles, there’s nothing we can do now.”

Ron curses and closes his eyes, leaning back against the wall. “We can’t let this continue.”

“We don’t have a choice,” I remind him. “Only way this ends is by bringing down You Know Who and the rest of the fucking Ministry.”

I’d storm the place now if I could, tear every one of them apart. There can’t be any good witches and wizards working for him, not any more- there’s no way that I can excuse their actions as just blindly following orders. This country’s gone to hell, and it’s just because people were all to happy to let him take control, and are even happier to have this much power over other humans, to be able to hurt and kill people without any repercussions.

We stay for a few hours, but I don’t feel like talking any more. The anger’s wound up too tightly inside me to think about anything else.

Of course there are some individuals (such as Draco, and our now allies who broke him out of prison) who, with a little persuasion, changed their allegiances. But there are just as many people who continue to follow Voldemort willingly and unquestioningly, because they like the way he leads.

 

We recount our lack of success that evening, and after discussing this growing problem Hermione announces that we need to find records of all other cases like this one, and any possible muggle disappearances that could be linked to this sort of activity. This way we’ll be able to start to work out where they might strike next, and what sort of locations we should monitor.

Draco’s been listening without contributing, his face difficult to read. “Did you know anything about this?” I ask him, not meaning for my voice to sound as accusatory as it does.

“No, I…” He shakes his head, “People joked about it, but I never thought…” I recognize his expression now, it’s the same one we all had when we first heard rumors about these groups, and their hobbies. Disgust. Horror. Disbelief. Anger.

Hermione volunteers herself to lead the group. That’s not much of a surprise; she’s the best at combing through evidence, and is quite heavily pregnant now, and even she has to agree that it would be best if she didn’t put herself in unnecessary danger. We haven’t talked about what she’ll do when the baby’s born.

At least, she hasn’t talked about it with me. Maybe her and Ron have discussed it.

A few of my friends stick around after dinner, probably to play cards like we often do to ignore the danger for a few hours, but I don’t feel like it tonight. Everything feels fragile with them, like I’m close to ruining this family I’ve made for myself, and I can’t help but wonder whether bringing Draco into it was just the final straw in tearing us apart.

I don’t regret him being here though. I want, _need,_ him in my life, and the secret was causing as much harm as the truth might.

Draco goes to bed at the same time as I do, and we pause before going our separate ways, unsure how to part.

“Goodnight, then,” He says eventually, nodding stiffly and turning to walk away.

 

Over the next few days, I work occasionally with Hermione, drawing together all the evidence I can find. A few hours a day I group together whoever else is free, and we train with Draco. Obviously, he’s already good, but the sort of fighting we have to do is different from what he’s used to, and his dueling is rusty. We’ve all learnt to follow each other’s body language to know what to do next, and it’s strange trying to teach this him, this understanding which has only really come from years of dueling together and the necessity of knowing what everyone else is thinking.

We talk a little over mealtimes, but we’re hesitant with each other as well, uncertain as to what we are now, whether the other wants things to go back to how they used to be.

 

Every night when we part I feel like I should go after him, can feel every nerve and bone and muscle in my body desperate not to let him leave. But every night I just wish him a good night, and watch him walk away.

 

My nightmares are bad again, more vivid than ever. Mostly they’re just the same visions as always, friends dead because of me, memories twisted so that I have to go through the pain of them over and over again.

 

Except one night it’s different.

 

In the back of my mind, I’m still aware that it’s a dream. The fear is real though, mixed with violence and anger that tingles beneath my skin, and I’m ready to fight, to kill. I walk down a corridor, and it’s only half lit, and I know where I’m going even though these walls and this floor is unfamiliar. As I get closer, the desire to attack grows stronger, and I find myself repeating the killing curse to myself, running it through my thoughts over and over, my grip on my wand tightening. I start to grow aware of someone standing just behind me, encouraging me to go further, to not hesitate.

When I reach the door, his hand is on my back, pushing me forwards, reminding me of what must be done. He doesn’t have to tell me. I know that it’s necessary. More than that, I _want_ to do this. Whoever’s behind this door, I want him dead, and I want to be the one to kill him. I want to watch the light leave his eyes.

I push open the door and step into the room beyond, every inch of my body _buzzing_ with excitement, with how much I want to end this, and I raise my wand towards the figure facing me. He’s preparing to attack as well, and if I don’t attack first, then he will. _Kill him,_ the voice behind me urges, _Kill him now._

_“Harry?”_

 

I blink, whirling round, trying to figure out who called my name. The man stood behind me tries to stop me, to refocus my thoughts, but it’s all blurred now. _This is a dream,_ I remind myself.

 

_“Harry? What are you doing?”_

Hands on my shoulders, gripping tightly enough to wrench myself away from the hazy fiction of my dream. I lurch from my sleep, mind whirling as I try to work out where I am.

It’s dark. I’m led to the bed where I sit down, and the other figure in the room leaves for a moment, and a second later the light comes on.

Draco stands before me, in loose tracksuit trousers, and no shirt, but I’m shaking from my dream and not wearing my glasses, so don’t spare much thought for how little he’s wearing. I must have woken him.

He takes the wand from my hand, his touch gentle, even though he has every right to be angry. I didn’t realize I was actually holding my wand- would I have really killed him if he hadn’t woken me up? Is that even possible?

“I’m sorry, I… I don’t usually sleepwalk,” I mumble.

He keeps his distance for now. “Was it just a dream?” He asks. “Or was… Was You Know Who there?”  
I rub my eyes and think back to the presence in my mind, now slipping away as I shake the dream off, and how he was pushing me forwards, telling me what to do, encouraging me to attack and kill. “Yeah, I think it was him. But it’s never happened like that before.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you know, I’ve had nightmares around you before,” I remind him, “Normally they’re just that. They’re horrible and our thoughts get all tangled up together, but he can’t usually make me…” I gesture vaguely at Draco’s room. “They’re normally just dreams. I don’t know how… I thought I had some amount of control, but if he can do this then what’s to stop me from losing myself completely? I can’t lose like this, I can’t go _mad,_ this isn’t how it’s meant to end…”

Draco crosses the room and sits next to me on the bed, taking my hands in his. “Don’t be ridiculous, you’re not going mad. You’re okay. Everyone has bad dreams, doesn’t make them weak, does it?”

“It was more than a _dream,_ I could- I felt him telling me what he wanted me to do, and I would have done it.” I can feel my words running away from me, my voice growing frantic.

“Is he gone now?”

“As much as he ever is.”

“You came back, Harry,” He says, letting go of my hands, “You snapped out of it. Give yourself some credit, not many people could have done that, not against someone as powerful as the Dark Lord.”

“It was you,” I say softly, “You pulled me out of it.”

He shakes his head. “I just reminded you what was real.”

I fight the desire to lean against him, afraid that he’ll jerk away from my touch, afraid that he’ll hold me even tighter. “Does he know about… Us?” I ask. “Did you tell him?” I hate the lack of trust in his voice, but I have to know. Voldemort already knows enough of my weaknesses.

“No. He just thinks we’re allies,” He says, and I sigh with relief. “Why? Was the dream about me?”

“I think so,” I tell him, because there’s no point in lying about these things. “He must know that you’re back here.” I let my head fall forwards so that my forehead rests in my hands, my fingers pulled gently at my hair. I hate this, hate that Voldemort has such a permanent place in my mind, that I can’t even trust my body to do as I ask any more. I hate that I can feel my control slipping away from me, that even now it would just take a moment of weakness to let him have complete power over me again.

It’s Draco that moves, that reaches out his arm to wrap around my shoulders. I relax and let him pull me towards him, safe against the warmth of his body. “Stay here tonight,” He whispers. “Sleep in my bed, I’ll… I can sleep on the floor.”

“What if I try and attack you again?”

“Then I’ll stop you.”

He eases away from me, waiting for me to argue, but I nod. My nightmares aren’t as bad when he’s nearby, I already know that, there’s no point in going back to my own empty room. He brushes his hand against my cheek, and I wonder for a moment if (or rather, hope that) he’s going to kiss me. He doesn’t. He stands and conjures a cushion and sleeping bag, and goes to turn the light out.

I wait, wondering if he’s going to speak again, but hear only rustling as he lies down, and I pull the duvet of his bed back, crawling gracelessly under them. I push away the pang in my chest when I notice how strongly it smells of him. I listen to the sound of his breathing, trying to relax, to force the lingering aggression on the edges of my mind to fade away.

I don’t sleep properly, just in short, unsatisfying bursts. I’m not woken by dreams, but the occasional realization of how close Draco is, wondering whether he’s asleep, or if he’s thinking about me as much as I’m thinking about him.

When I do catch a few moments of sleep, my dreams are about him. They’re _my_ dreams though, snatches of imagined conversations and touches, my half awake mind doing little more than innocently fantasize about all of this mess just sorting itself out.

 

“You look like hell,” Draco tells me the next morning, coming back into the room after showering to find me awake. “I fetched these for you,” He says, and passes me my glasses. When our fingers brush, I wonder whether last night has broken down any of these uncertain barriers we’ve built around ourselves.

“I didn’t have any more nightmares.”

“I know. You talk in your sleep when you have nightmares, I’d have heard.”

I rub at my eyes, heavy with exhaustion (though I know that doesn’t mean I’d be able to go back to sleep, no matter how much my body longs to rest properly) and put my glasses back on. “Thanks for letting me stay.”

He smiles but doesn’t reply.

“Do you want to go somewhere else for breakfast?” I ask, suddenly overwhelmed by how little I want to be around anyone but him this morning, to have to talk to other people. “There’s a town nearby, and a pretty good café.”

He narrows his eyes, “Are you sure that’s safe?”

I shrug. “There’s no reason for Death Eaters to be around.”

 

Either no one notices us leaving, or they don’t mind, but we have no problem leaving the base. It’s a half hour walk into the town center, but we decided to take it anyway. It’s a cool autumn morning, and the sun is shining weakly, and it’s good to walk through the fresh air without worrying about being attacked.

“Have you heard from Astoria?” I ask. Occasionally over the past few weeks I’ve wondered about her, considered how she must feel after Draco betrayed us to keep her safe. I’ve seen her name in the papers enough times to be sure that she’s still alive, at least.

“I’ve only seen her once, since… And we’ve exchanged a few coded letters through the muggle post. She was considering working with Liam to help get people in and out of the Ministry, if we needed to.”

“And her fiancé?”

“As far as I know, no one knows anything of his existence.” He looks out over the fields surrounding us, his expression thoughtful, sad. “If I could go back and change my decision, I wouldn’t.”

“I know.” I consider taking his hand but decide against it. “And I’m sorry that you were forced to make that decision in the first place.”

“No, don’t- it was my fault. I was the one that was desperate to help you, I couldn’t let you out of my life, and I got stupid and overconfident and started trusting too many people,” He turns his head towards me, and his hair is shining gold in the morning sunlight, his gaze earnest and insistent that I believe him. “None of what happened was your fault.”

“It wasn’t yours either,” I tell him, even though it’s been all too easy over the past few months to blame him entirely, “We just… We live in a world where sometimes all we have are impossible choices, and there’s rarely a right answer, just the one that you can live with.”

“You don’t hate me then?” He asks with a smirk that I suspect is masking genuine concern.

“No, nothing that simple.”

 

That night, I start to say goodnight, as we always do, but he stops me. “You can stay in my room again, to stop the nightmares,” He says, giving me the sort of smile that chases away all thoughts about what a bad idea it would be.

I follow him to his door, knowing that pretty soon people will be talking about us with certainty that it’s more than mere rumors, and that I don’t really care. I know that Draco is worthy of our trust, and that I shouldn’t have to try and defend the way I feel about him, or explain that my trust in him is completely separate from my attraction to him. I trust him because I know him, because over the past few months I’ve begun to know him well enough to believe without doubt that he’s the sort of person I can trust. He’s far from a perfect soldier in the war we’re fighting, but he _cares,_ and he’s seen the evil You Know Who is capable of, and he’s chosen to do what he can to fight it, even though it would have been far easier to keep out of trouble.

Most of us didn’t have a choice when we started to fight back against Voldemort. It took him a few years, but Draco was given the opportunity to choose a side and he decided to stand with me, with _us._ I don’t understand why some people are so determined to ignore that.

I stand in Draco’s room, and he stands a few steps from me. I almost say something, but the words die in my mouth.

We’ve slept in the same room, the same bed, a dozen times before, but now we pause, unsure how to continue.

He sits on the edge of his bed and pulls off his shoes, then walks over to the drawers and takes off his t-shirt (I look away, feeling like I shouldn’t stare) and folds it before putting it away. Whilst my back is turned I realize I should undress too, that I can hardly go to sleep in jeans, and wish I had gone back to my room to grab something to change into. It doesn’t matter, I think, leaving my shoes and trousers on the floor and walking over to the bed in my t-shirt and boxers, _he_ invited _me._

He’s dressed the same as last night when I look back at him, and his eyes linger on me for a second, as mine do on him. He picks up his wand to summon the extra pillow and sleeping bag again, but I catch his hand before he casts the spell.

He raises his eyebrows, “We don’t have to… If you just want me here.”

“I’ll sleep better next to you,” I say, “Properly. Unless…”

He doesn’t argue, just goes to turn out the light and walks back over to me, gently pulling me towards the bed. He lies next to the wall, and I slip into bed next to him. My eyes haven’t adjusted the dark yet, but I know that he’s lying on his side, facing me; I can feel the warmth of his breath.

“You really sleep better when you’re with me?” He asks, voice hushed.

“Yeah,” I say. It’s easier to tell the truth in the dark, and I continue, trying to explain, “There was a time when you were the only thing in my life that didn’t seem to be spinning out of control. Some days being with you was all that felt real.”

“And now?

“I’m not sure. But there’s something… My mind feels like it’s slipping away from me, and when I’m with you, I…” I can feel words on the tip of my tongue that I worry will scare him off if I say them out loud, so I fight to push them away. “Things just feel like they make sense.”

Draco lets out a breath of laughter, and I feel him move his body closer to mine. “Before that day when you kissed me for the first time,” He says softly, and my heart leaps strangely at the memory, at the thought of how much has changed since then, “I had nothing. You make me feel alive, you give me something to stay alive _for._ ”

I don’t know who initiates the kiss, but the breath of space between us is gone and our lips meet, brushing together in the dark. We kiss softly, slowly, and my hand reaches out to graze against his chest, to remind myself of _him,_ of how well we fit together.

When I sleep, my mind is calm, content, the fear and longing that has so often plagued my waking hours forgotten, even if only for tonight.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POV: Draco Malfoy
> 
> I watch Harry out of the corner of my eye as he talks with Ron. I can’t hear the words, but both of their expressions are fierce, determined, like they’d take down the whole Ministry tonight if someone just gave them the opportunity.  
> “I hold it true, whate'er befall; I feel it, when I sorrow most,” Hermione says, “'Tis better to have loved and lost, Than never to have loved at all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! I think this chapter is something like 12000 words, I can't believe I used to post chapters that were only about 4000 words, what happened? Only two chapters left now! Thank you so much to everyone who's read this far, I'm so so grateful. As always, comments and kudos make me happy and it's soo much easier to motivate myself to keep writing when I get positive feedback!  
> also, there's a bit after this line "Suddenly he freezes, his face a few inches from mine as he lies on top of me. The he gasps and pulls away, eyes wide with shock and horror" where harry has a sort of panic attack after seeing one of Voldemort's visions, it's from draco's perspective, but if you don't want to read it then I would suggest skipping to "I take his hand, hoping that it’s enough to stop Voldemort from taking him completely. “Thought what would be fun?”" xx

Somehow, I wake up one morning and am hit by a sudden realization that it’s been more than three months since this secret base of Potter’s had become a sort of home, since becoming a rebel had pretty much become a full time occupation and Harry and I had, with some obstacles, fallen back into each other’s lives. There have been days when it’s seemed impossible to even _survive_ this long, yet here we are.

Harry’s always awake before me, though in the early days he would stay lying beside me, doze a little, content to simply wait. This morning, when I open my eyes, the opposite side of the bed is empty. I sit up, sudden fear twisting in my stomach, breathing a sigh of relief when I see him sitting at his desk, staring into space.

There’s been something different about him recently, a shift that seems to have taken place just over the past few weeks. I try to tell myself that it has nothing to do with the destruction of a Horcrux last month (after we got word of its location, the next day was a blur of planning and organization before we lost our chance, and along with our increasing forces on the inside of the Ministry, we broke into a top security vault and destroyed it. Getting out was harder, but almost all of us made it) because once I start considering the fact that Harry’s state of mind seems intrinsically linked to the Horcruxes, to Voldemort’s fragility, I start to consider all sorts of awful possibilities.

He’s certain that the only one left is the snake. I’m afraid that he’s wrong.

Watching him now, the expression on his face is unfamiliar. There’s something calculating about it, something cold and sharp that I have only seen glimpses of before.

“Harry?” I push away the covers, wincing at the cold of the room and walking softly towards him. Nothing about his face or body indicates that he’s heard me, and I hesitantly lay my hand on his shoulder. He turns his head, looking up at me without recognition for a moment.

Then all of a sudden, a soft, sleepy smile breaks across his face, the coldness gone, and for a few seconds I forget the feeling that I’m losing him.

“Morning,” He says warmly, and I kiss the top of his head, brushing my fingers through his hair when I pull away. ”What time is it?”

“Nearly eight. How long have you been awake?”

He shakes his head and looks back towards the desk, his hand moving absentmindedly over the mess of papers and articles. “I’m not sure.”

“You want to get some breakfast?”

“I’m not hungry.”

I feel a pang of worry in my chest; as far as I’m aware, Harry didn’t eat anything yesterday either. But I try to bury my anxiety, at least when I’m around him, knowing that thinking I pity him is the last thing he needs right now. “Okay, well I’m going to shower. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He nods, and I hesitate before going over to the drawers to find some clothes. Obviously, I’m immensely grateful for being allowed to stay here, for the protection it provides and for having a chance to make something of my life, but having shared shower facilities is like being back at school, and I feel my heart sink every time I have to make my way down the corridor just to wash up.

“I think I can get a few hours off this morning, if you want to go somewhere,” I say, pausing on my way out. “You look like you could use a break,” I add, the fond teasing slipping off my tongue with ease.

“I’m needed here.”

“Just a few hours, Harry,” I say. This place is stifling, and I think it’s the crowds and the dark corridors and the eyes on him all the time, more than anything, that are weighing down on him. At least, that’s what I tell myself. It’s stifling for me as well though, and I don’t know how much longer I can put up with this without going half mad myself.

Christmas is next week. I can’t see there being much of a celebration. It’s a miracle that I’m even able to keep track of the date- my life has become a meaningless blur of missions and research, of toiling over cauldrons, mixing routine potions and experimenting with supplementing obscure ingredients with whatever we can find, and my memories of the past few months are starting to bleed together. Some days rush by, with running and fighting and Harry and I crashing against each other when we get back, filled with the exhilaration of how lucky we are to be alive. Other days are grey and feel hopeless, like we’re just waiting for whatever ending fate gives us.

“We could spend those few hours here instead,” Harry says, raising his eyebrows slightly. I have to admit, he makes a compelling argument. Even in the days when we were practically living together, our moments in each other’s company were snatched and rushed, and I often find myself longing for the simple pleasure of lying in bed with him all day, the rest of the world fading to insignificance.

And the look he gives me, holding my gaze and smirking in a way he knows is impossible to resist… I know I should be suggesting other ways of clearing his mind, but sex seems as good a method of breaking Voldemort’s hold for a while as anything else.

 

On my way back from my shower, Granger practically runs straight into me, breathless. I don’t know why she’s still here really, not now that she’s a mother (her daughter was born last month, they called her Rose, because she was something beautiful and loved in a world going to shit, or some explanation to that effect) but she insisted that she keep fighting, her and Ron. They’ve kept their daughter around too- I don’t think either of them can even imagine letting her out of their care, and reaching out to Ron’s parents is too dangerous right now.

“ _Merlin,_ Granger, what’s going on?”

“We just got word from Seamus, he’s been watching one of the warehouses we think Death Eaters are using for…” She doesn’t finish the sentence, she knows she doesn’t need to spell it out. We’ve had people watching sites that fit the description of ones that have been used by witches and wizards to torment and torture Muggles for months now. “Nearly a dozen people just showed up.”

“Muggles with them?”

She nods bleakly. “We could use your help, more could be there by now.”

“Should I get Harry?” I ask, lowering my voice. There’s too much shit between Hermione and I, mostly put there by me, for us to be friends, but I often think that we both only really find understanding in each other when it comes to our worries about Harry. Ron understands, of course he does, but I suspect that he doesn’t really want to think about it.

Eventually, she nods. “We can’t leave him behind.”

“He’s not exactly reliable,” I say, practically whispering now. “Remember last month…”

“I know. But we can’t just shove him to the sidelines, not now.” She’s right. I sort of hate it when she’s right. “We leave in five minutes.” Then she hurries off, and I see her catch the arm of someone else down the hall.

I suppose that means my plans for the day have been somewhat altered, I think bitterly, and walk back to Harry’s room with a heavy heart. I’ve become so washed up in this life, in fighting the good fight, that it’s easy to forget all that I’ve done wrong. There was a time when I would have wanted to forget, when I would have shrouded myself in my heroic deeds and forget about the less noble ones, but I don’t think I deserve that privilege. It’s because of the past some days that I’m even able to keep going, trying to even the scales, to do my part to clean up the mess I helped to make.

As I step back into Harry’s room, catch a glimpse of him in the moment before he realizes I’m here, I know that I want to prove too that he was right to believe in me, that I don’t want to disappoint him. There’s something about him that makes it so easy to be caught up in his battle, and I know that I’d follow him anywhere, that I would do anything, not just for him, but for the war he’s fighting. Whatever it takes to end this war, I’ll do it. The certainty of this knowledge is overwhelming, and I feel breathless for a second.

I clear my throat. “Granger’s heard from Seamus,” I say, “A few people have turned up there. We’re leaving in a few minutes.”

Harry sighs and rubs his forehead, “Right. I should get dressed.”

“I think this is kind of urgent,” I say as he roots around the room almost lazily, picking up clothes and scanning the floor for his shoes.

“Yeah, sorry.” Harry frowns, looking lost for a moment. I cross the room towards him brush my hand across his cheek, he closes his briefly, leaning into my touch. “I haven’t been sleeping well,” He says, a pitiful explanation for his hazy mood, and we both know it. I don’t argue with him, just nod and lean in to kiss him. Kisses with him never seem to last long enough. There’s always something else that we’re rushing towards, something else that means we can’t linger here.

“We’re going to fight, not a fashion show,” I tell him, grabbing the hoodie thrown over the back of a chair and tossing it to him.

 

We burst through the warehouse door, _‘all guns blazing,’_ as Dean put it. His voice was shaking a little when he said it, and he’s been carefully avoiding the topic of Seamus over the past few minutes as we hurriedly planned our attack.

“He’ll be alright,” I said, a little awkwardly, as we stood outside the warehouse. I’m not sure whether we’ve had an actual conversation _ever,_ which is probably why he gave me a slightly suspicious look, and I immediately regretted it.

I think of those words again when we burst through the doors, and freeze when we see Seamus, his hands bound and a Death Eater stood behind him, her wand ready to aim a curse at him at the slightest provocation.

I hear Dean’s strangled gasped, and see Ron and Neville out of the corner of my eye, holding him back. On my other side stands Harry, and he’s not looking at Seamus, but at the small crowd of Muggles, tied up in the corner, hoods over their heads. They’re still alive, at least. Except we can’t make any move to save them without putting Seamus at risk.

A quick glance around the room tells me we outnumber them, but I don’t think anyone is over enthusiastic about taking a chance. I can’t help but think of Astoria, of Voldemort giving me a choice between her life and my loyalties, and the hatred I received for choosing her. Yet here they are, hesitating, when it wouldn’t even be especially difficult to overpower those holding these Muggles hostage.

All it takes is these few seconds for it all to go to shit, I think, but I don’t say anything.

“Put down your wands,” The witch holding Seamus orders. I think I recognize her, though I don’t know her name. She’s young, younger than us even- she can’t be any older than twenty. I would have thought that the group would have obeyed without question, but even Dean hesitates. They have some common sense after all then. We all know that there’s too much at risk for us to surrender, not just the lives of the innocent Muggles taken captive, but also all of our lives, and any hope that the resistance has of succeeding.

“That’s not happening,” Harry says, and I can’t help but shiver at the dangerous edge to his voice.

“Then your friend dies. Unless you give yourself up, Potter.”

“What do you think will happen if you do kill him?” Harry asks. He pauses for a second, raises his eyebrows as though he’s waiting for an answer. “Every single one of you will be next.”

“Harry…” I reach out and touch his arm, hoping he can hear my plea to be careful. His friends will never forgive him if he gets Seamus killed.

Surprisingly, the witch doesn’t kill Seamus. She doesn’t let him go either, but she seems torn. She knows that whatever she does, she’s dead. She’s counting the numbers of her allies against ours, realizing that she’s made a mistake. She got too arrogant, was certain that she could capture Harry Potter and his friends, forgetting that there’s a reason they’ve survived so long.

Seamus’ eyes dart towards the huddled Muggles, pleading with Harry. Maybe they’ve silenced him, maybe he’s just too afraid to talk, but his thoughts are clear enough: _get them out of here._

We’re caught like that for what feels like an eternity, the small group of Death Eaters, aiming their wands at us, as we point ours back at them, but everyone’s eyes are on Seamus, and the woman holding him.

We can’t drop our wands, everyone knows that, but the idea of standing by as one of our own is executed is equally horrifying.

Seamus looks away from the Muggles, and it’s Dean he looks at now. I can’t help but feel guilty for watching them, for seeing the glances they exchange, the silent understanding, this agreement that they make without words, and I look away.

I wonder if Seamus thinks it’s worth it, not even to die in some great fight, but on a mission that should have been easy. It’s more than that though, I realize, and I don’t know why I never gave it much thought before. If we only focus on the big picture, we forget all the people that have got caught up and killed in this war, we forget to protect everyone who should have no part in this. This way, at least, we can see the direct impact, we can actively save people’s lives.

The rest of the group exchange glances now, and I don’t know them well enough to fully understand what they mean, and feel vastly unprepared for whatever’s going to happen next.

They attack suddenly, curses flying everywhere, taking down a handful of Death Eaters immediately. Hermione flicks her wand towards the witch holding Seamus, and she falls backwards, Seamus bursting free from the bindings that had been cast, and collapsing to his knees. I see Dean rush towards him, but then I’m caught up in the fighting too.

In some ways, it’s easy to let this take over, to lose myself in standing beside Harry, aiming curses and blocking spells with ease, watching the room in a sort of distanced way, seeing only allies and enemies. And these people aren’t the most talented of Voldemort’s followers; they’re the young, the weak, the ones that only feel strong when torturing Muggles. They don’t stand a chance against us.

 _“Malfoy,”_ Someone snarls, and I remember with a jolt how blurred those lines between ally and enemy have become for me. The voice belongs to a wizard my age, but in the heat of the fighting I don’t have the time or energy to try and think of his name. “I never wanted to believe the rumors were true, you know,” He continues, “To think that _you_ would ally yourself with _Potter_ -“ His words are cut short as a killing curse hits him in the chest. I turn, and see that it was Harry that cast the spell. It’s not the first time I’ve seen him killing someone like that, but it’s seemed like recently he’s been increasingly willing to see it as the only option.

When we turn our attention back to the rest of the fight, only a few of our enemies are still standing.

I see the witch too late, the one who had held a wand to Seamus’ throat.

Seamus is climbing to his feet at the same time as she does, half leaning on Dean, their hands clasped tightly together.

I should call out, but all I can do is watch as she picks up her wand from the floor, her expression determined, thinking only of the satisfaction it will give her to have this small victory.

Everyone else is too distracted, probably sure that the witch is either dead or unconscious, to do anything about it, and I’m just not fast enough. She waves her wand with confidence, an assured slash through the air as she aims the killing curse at him.

I realize that I’m holding my arm out, uselessly, as though that would do anything, and just stand there like an idiot, a pathetic coward, as Seamus falls, dead, to the floor.

It takes everyone a few seconds to notice, and then some rush towards him and Dean, but I stay where I am. I watch a cold, hard, rage pass across Harry’s face, his grip on his wand strengthening. He takes out the witch first, a careless curse thrown in her direction like it’s an everyday chore he doesn’t even think about.

I barely notice as we finish it off, bringing down the enemy witches and wizards still standing.

Hermione and I get to work helping the Muggles; we check for wounds (fortunately we got here before they were severely hurt), and she tries to calm them, but the sounds of battle and the ordeal of being kidnapped have left them all terrified. We’re both good at memory charms, and once we’ve knocked them out, we start removing the last day or so of memories. I know her well enough to see that she hates it, editing their memories like this, but I don’t have to remind her that it’s necessary. The last thing we need is for Muggles to have any clearer an idea about the existence of the Magical World.

Once we’ve finished, she looks over to where the rest of the group are stood in a loose crowd. There are tears in her eyes, and I step away, not wanting to meet her gaze if she’s going to start crying. We need to move the Muggles out of here, get them somewhere far enough away that they won’t come back to this place.

 _“One day,_ ” Hermione hisses, and her voice is filled with as much anger and irritation as grief, “We’ll have a victory that doesn’t also feel like a defeat.”

“I don’t think that’s especially realistic,” I say, hearing too late how callous I sound. She doesn’t reply, doesn’t even seem to hear me, and makes her way over to her friends. I don’t follow. I have no place in their grief. I can’t try and comfort them when all I can think is that we’re lucky we didn’t lose anyone else, when I’m more worried about how quickly Harry can shift to a killer these days. I didn’t know Seamus; he did his best to avoid me over the past few months, once he realized that I wasn’t going to be leaving any time soon.

But still, my heart feels a little heavier. Hermione’s right- we just can’t seem to win.

And I have this strange feeling, watching Dean cradling Seamus’ body, that his grief could so easily be mine, that with every day that passes, I’m losing Harry, or moving one day closer to a time when he’ll do something stupid enough to get himself killed. The idea seems to have taken on a feeling of inevitability recently, like I can’t see a future where he lives beyond this war.

 

“Do you think it’s worth it?” I ask Hermione at the small funeral we hold the next day. Seamus is buried just inside our defenses. Usually there’s no time, or there are too many dead, to bring the bodies back here, but this is different. We all made our way to the main hall afterwards, a few people opened bottles of Firewhisky and other drinks, and the mood takes on the somber tone of a group too accustomed to losing people.

Hermione looks up, surprised by my sudden question. She cradles her baby in her lap, and I think I’m glad that she’s still alive, that neither her nor Ron were killed yesterday, though the feeling is nothing more than concern for their child than for them, this baby that has no choice in being wrapped up in the dangers of this war. “Is _what_ worth it?”

I incline my head towards Dean, standing alone, his friends uncertain of what to say. “Love. I mean, this life we all lead, we could literally die any day, I just… Sometimes I wonder how you can all fall in love so easily.”

“It’s not exactly something that you choose,” She says, somehow managing to sound superior even about that. Perhaps realizing that this answer is hardly satisfying, she sighs softly and continues, “Just because you might get hurt, doesn’t mean you should close yourself off.”

I watch Harry out of the corner of my eye as he talks with Ron. I can’t hear the words, but both of their expressions are fierce, determined, like they’d take down the whole Ministry tonight if someone just gave them the opportunity.

“ _I hold it true, whate'er befall; I feel it, when I sorrow most_ ,” Hermione says, _“'Tis better to have loved and lost, Than never to have loved at all.”_

“What?”

“It’s a poem, Tennyson I think,” She looks down at Rose, brushing her fingertips over her soft hair, “My point is, there’s no point avoiding any chance at happiness just because there might be pain somewhere along the road. The good times are worth the risk of losing each other. Dean and Seamus knew that; Ron and I know it too. Besides, what are we fighting for, if not the ones we love?” She gives me a meaningful look, one I suppose I’m meant to understand without question, but really it just seems like she’s in on a joke that I’m not.

I struggle to think of what to say, to figure out whether she’s right. I know that’s not all they’re fighting for, they all talk about the greater good enough for me to be certain that they can see beyond their small circle of friends. But, I suppose, without _love_ it’s easy to become disenchanted with the idea of victory, to question what the point of it all is. By the time I was imprisoned here, when Harry’s friends kidnapped me from the Ministry nearly a year ago, I had nothing left to justify my actions other than habit. Now though, I can see the effect that what I’m doing has; if we succeed, Granger’s daughter, Harry’s son, might grow up in a better world. Some of our friends might survive long enough to see that world too. Astoria will finally be able to marry the love of her life, even if her father is a little disapproving, and she can have the happy ending she deserves. I know that all of that is worth fighting for.

It’s been a few weeks since I heard from Astoria. We were going to meet for a coffee somewhere inconspicuous, but she cancelled at the last minute without a proper explanation. I know she’s not a high priority for these people, that there are bigger problems, but still I wish their was someone else who cared enough to at least find out if she’s okay.

Harry and Ron come over and sit by us before I have time to try and answer Hermione. I squeeze Harry’s hand as he takes the seat next to him, and he looks so tired, so sick of all of this pain, and I can’t think of a damn thing I can do to make it any more bearable.

“We need to get a plan in place to destroy that snake,” Harry says quietly, “And then we kill _him._ If we waste much more time there’ll be none of us left to see the other side of this war.”

“We’re not wasting time Harry,” Ron insists. “We’re doing everything we can, saving as many people as- you don’t think yesterday was pointless, do you?”

“No,” Harry looks at Ron like he’s pleading, begging his friend to understand that he’s trying to see the best in what they do. “I just think that we’d be better off trying to destroy all of this from the roots, instead of going for the smaller targets.”

“We don’t even know where he keeps the snake,” I remind him.

“I can find out,” He says. We look at him blankly, a little concerned, and his gaze falls to stare at the surface of the table, “I think I can push back against his connection, just for a few moments, and I can see.”

“You can’t,” Hermione says quickly, “He’ll know what you’re doing, he’ll change his plans, he’ll attack back-”

“I know what I’m doing. I’ve tried before,” He admits, continuing before any of us have a chance to tell him how stupid he is, “I can do it so he won’t know.”

“It’s dangerous,” I say. There are days when I honestly have no idea how Weasley and Granger have put up with his reckless tendencies for so long.

“Since when did you care about danger?” Harry snaps. “The only reason I liked you in the first place was because you’re the only one who doesn’t treat me like I’m _fragile.”_

“You can’t expect me to just…”

“Just what?”

“Do you want me to pretend that I don’t care about you? To just stand by whilst you endanger yourself further?” I take a steadying breath, “You say you want to survive this, but you don’t have much chance of that if You Know Who completely snaps your mind.” _I want you to survive this,_ I add in my mind. There’s nothing for me after this war if he doesn’t make it. Out of all of us, he’s the one that deserves to _live,_ to have happiness and peace, and a part of me wants to shout at him, to make him understand that he can’t just throw it all away, not after everything, to tell him that I don’t know how I’d go on if we lost him. When I look over at Hermione and Ron, I see the same desperate sadness in their expressions.

“I _promise_ I know what I’m doing,” Harry tells us, as though infuriated by fears he sees as unimportant. “This war will never be over if I do nothing, and I- I really need it to be over.”

 _Trust him,_ I try to tell myself. _He knows Voldemort’s mind better than anyone._

And somehow, I find myself agreeing to his plan. After all, it is the closest thing we have to a strategy right now.

“Wait a few days, whilst we deal with…” Hermione says, gesturing vaguely at the poor excuse for a funeral, “You’re in no state to be testing your mind right now.” I expect him to argue, but he nods. A few days won’t make much of a difference, really.

 

“I’m sorry you got caught up in this mess, Draco,” He says one night. I thought he’d finally fallen asleep. “I would never have asked this of you if I knew that it would cost you so much.”

“Yes you would have.” I pull him closer so that he’s lying with his head on my chest, and I run my fingers through his hair (I never cease to love the feeling of his hair, to marvel at the fact that it’s as much of a mess before my influence than it is after, to be distracted for a moment by the soft sigh of contentment that he never makes any attempt to hide.) “It doesn’t matter, because there’s no way you could have got me out of your life. Maybe I didn’t think about what I signed up for, but… I wouldn’t change it. I wouldn’t want to give up everything we have.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and I start to wonder whether he’s drifted off after all. When he speaks again, it’s barely more than a whisper. “It just never feels like enough, does it?”

“Once this is over, we’ll make it enough,” I promise him. At least, I hope it’s a promise. I can’t shake the feeling that I _know,_ in my heart, that it’s a lie.

 

When we finally sit down to do this, Harry assuring us that he’s ready, it feels wrong, as though we’re willingly standing by as we send him to his end. Hermione asks if he needs anything, but he shakes his head, asking only for quiet. He tries to tell us to leave him alone, but we insist that we stay- if something goes wrong, he might need someone to help him come back to us. We haven’t told anyone else about this plan, an unspoken agreement that people are worried enough about Harry’s connection with Voldemort without knowing about this too.

It seems as though we spend forever watching Harry as he sits on the edge of his bed, head in his hands, completely still. I want to sit next to him, wrap my arms around him, but know that I can’t risk breaking his concentration. Anything could be happening right now inside his mind, and we’d have no idea, we’re just sitting here, completely useless. Occasionally I hear him mutter to himself, the rasping sound of Parseltongue that I recognize from my time around Voldemort, and months of sleeping next to Harry when he’s dreaming. I don’t know whether the fact that he’s speaking it right now means he’s in danger or not.

His head snaps up, his gaze wild and unseeing for a few seconds. “I found it,” He says, his voice little more than a whisper.

“You’re sure, Harry?” Hermione takes a step towards him.

“He keeps it by his side, doesn’t let it out of his sight unless he has to- like if there’s something he has to deal with, and its safer to leave it behind. It’s kept in a protected room when he leaves, there’s…” Harry pauses, and a small, triumphant smile lights up his face, “There’s a house he uses, only four other people know about it.”

My thoughts begin to spin too fast to sort through them all as I consider the possibilities, as I try to work out some way that we could make this work. “Is there anyway we could get one of our people inside?”  
Harry hesitates, his sense of victory faltering, but not destroyed completely, “It would be difficult, this isn’t something he’s going to trust just _anyone_ with.”

“So we draw him out,” Ron says. “We set up something that he would never say no to, and we have people waiting at his house- do you know how to get in?”

“Yes. There’s a spell. But there’ll be alarms if someone else tries to get inside, we’d have to figure out how to trick the system.” He stands and walks over to his desk, rummaging around until he finds some blank paper and a pen, and mutters something about writing everything down before he forgets.

Obviously there are complications, there are always difficulties and obstacles, but it’s not as though any of this is impossible. It seems too easy, as we rush towards the end of this fight, and I’m still on edge, waiting for the tables to turn and everything to go to shit.

“Here,” Harry passes the paper to Hermione, “That’s everything I know about the place, everything I could find out. Think it’ll be enough to figure something out?”

Hermione reads carefully, and after a few seconds she nods. “I think so. It might take a while, but we’ll make it work.”

Harry’s eyes light up with such excitement, such a sudden loss of weariness and defeat that for a second I forget my worries too. Everything else disappears; all that matters is the weightlessness of Harry’s expression, his stance, even if it doesn’t last I try and preserve this image. It’s easy to believe, watching him, that this war could really be won without too much of a mess, that in a short amount of time everyone’s lives will go back to normal, and all the pain will be forgotten. I _want_ to believe it.

“One problem,” Ron says, and I want to punch him for pointing it out. Though he’s still being optimistic, really, suggesting that there might be only _one_ problem. “What do we do to get You Know Who to leave that place?”

His words feel like a stone, dropped on my chest without warning, because I know with a certainty that reminds me that there’s only really one thing that we can guarantee Voldemort would put so much at risk for.

Hermione doesn’t take her eyes off the page. “We’ll figure that out once we know we can get in,” She says flatly.

“That’s the least of our worries,” Harry says, brushing it off without a thought, and he comes to stand next to me. “You were right, Ron, when you said that we’re close to ending this. We’re _so_ close.” He grins and wraps his arm around my waist, kissing my cheek. There’s a jumpiness to him, every movement seeming forced or not completely controlled, and I try to ignore it, to just focus on the warmth that comes from such simple affections, the joy of not hiding it anymore.

Hermione and Ron offer their agreement, and although neither of them seem as confident as he does, Harry doesn’t seem to notice.

“Are you okay?” I ask him, after they leave us alone, making excuses about getting to work and checking on Rose.

“Yeah, of course.”

“You’re testing the connection with him, you don’t think that has risks?

He takes my hands, smiling at me as though I’m being ridiculous. “We’re never going to defeat him by sitting back and staying safe. I mean, if that’s what you want to do-”

“Don’t be an arse, Harry,” I say sharply.

He sighs, and the smile falls away. “I think I might have- it’s like there’s a wall between us, and so far things have just been slipping through the cracks, but there’s this feeling now, like I might have done something that’s started to knock the wall down.”  
My breath hitches. “Sounds like you might have done something really stupid here Potter.”

“That’s usually how I end up winning.”

“You better be right,” I say. He just needs to hold on for a few weeks, then Voldemort will be gone and we won’t have to worry about any of this anymore. Just a few weeks.

“We can’t afford to imagine that we won’t win,” He says softly, like he’s afraid of anyone else overhearing. “Not after all of this.”

I kiss him, my hand moving to the base of his back, holding him close to me, and chase away my fears that our time is limited. I pull away just enough so that I can tell him, “We’re not going to lose, don’t be ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” He says, closing the gap between us to kiss me again. “And afterwards, I was thinking,” His hands rest on my waist, and all I want is to lose myself in touching him, kissing him, treasuring every moment we have alone together, but there’s a gravity to his words and I force myself to listen. “We should get a place together somewhere. My son, he could… James could live there too. If that’s what you’d want?”  
I let myself consider that, the strange family that we’d have together, raising his child and not worrying about the war or the danger anymore, just living every day the way we want, and I can’t help but smile. It’s not the life I would have fantasized about years ago, but now it sounds like a sort of paradise. “I think I’d like that a lot,” I say, and mean it.

 

Hermione and a few others toil away over the protective spell, and they’re making steady progress, apparently. I’ve contributed a little, but I think they were all hoping that I’d be able to offer some great revelation after my time as a Death Eater, and my actual thoughts were mostly disappointing, so I’m mostly assigned to more active duties. I don’t think any of them really want to work closely with me, to be honest. Instead, I go out to stakeout locations of known Death Eater activity, which always seems like just ways to make people feel useful, but I don’t mind. It’s always better to get out of the base and spend a few hours out in the cold than to be stuck in the small, underground rooms.

We mark Christmas with just a few drinks and uplifting speeches.

“Next year,” Harry says in the evening, with that longing tone we’ve both adopted when we talk about life after we win, “We’ll celebrate properly. There’ll be a turkey, and presents…”

“And I’ll make sure I sing plenty of Christmas songs,” I say with a grin.

On an evening a few days into the new year, Harry and I are sitting outside a closed café where a few Muggles said they saw bright lights flying around in the street. It’s probably nothing, but one of the Weasleys suggested that we go anyway. Somehow, Harry persuaded them that he should go too.

There’s a bench outside, and we sit close together, my arm loosely draped over his shoulders as he leans into me, and our breath leaves white wispy clouds in the night air. He’s distant, despite this casual closeness, and there’s something about him that I can’t quite reach tonight.

“Harry,” I pull away, spotting a familiar figure across the street.

“What?” His gaze sharpens, impending danger always having the effect of bringing him back to reality.

“That’s Mulciber. I don’t think he’s seen us yet.” The Death Eater starts to cross the road towards us, and I wish we’d bothered to disguise ourselves because there’s no way he won’t recognize us. If we attack first, we might stand a chance, but there are Muggles around and we can’t let them get caught in the crossfire. But if _he_ attacks first, then he could kill one or both of us before we have a time to fight back. My first thought is just to Disapperate, to get out of here and let him do what he came to do, but I know that’s not the _noble_ thing to do, not when we’re meant to protect people. Letting him go could be as bad as helping him with whatever he’s planning.

“Trust me,” I say to Harry, turning to grab the front of his shirt and kissing him hard. He doesn’t kiss back at first, but either he catches onto my plan or just sees no point in arguing about kissing, because he doesn’t pull away. His mouth is warm, and I forget about the cold of the night, just kissing him like there’s nothing else that matters in the world- though really I’m listening out for Mulciber’s footsteps too, waiting for him to pass, by heart beating sickeningly fast as I imagine him getting closer with every second that passes.

But he doesn’t do anything, doesn’t speak, just hurries along without stopping. Once I’m certain that he’s far enough away, I pull back from the kiss, and press my finger to my lips as I watch him disappear down the next street.

“What was that?” Harry whispers.

“I just figured that he might be uncomfortable enough that he’d avoid looking at us,” I say. “Do we follow him?”

“Of course.”

“Yeah, of course. Stupid question.” We stand and start to trace Mulciber’s footsteps, and I catch Harry’s arm after a few paces. “We don’t attack unless it’s absolutely necessary though, agreed?”

He nods, albeit a little reluctantly, and we continue walking. When we turn the corner, we see him stood close to a woman, probably a witch based on her clothing, and they’re talking too quietly for us to hear. They could be on a date, I suppose, but their posture seems more secretive that affectionate, so they’re probably just sharing evil schemes.

“It’s not worth intervening,” I mutter to Harry, “We’ll go back, say we saw him, but if we get into a fight with them, you could get killed, and there’s no point in risking _that._ ”

“We can’t just let him go.”

“No one’s immediately in danger!”

“That we know of,” Harry says, and then gives a defeated sigh, reaching into his trouser pockets and pulling out a small black object the size of his fingernail. “One of the tracking devices George has been working on,” He explains, “At least this way we’re not doing _nothing._ ” He whispers the word of activation and Mulciber’s name, and the object lifts off his palm, floating silently through the night and latching onto the Death Eater’s robes. It might not tell us anything important, but Harry’s right, this way we have the illusion of this being worth our time.

“Let’s go home,” I say to Harry, “We can finish what we started on the bench,” I pause as we start to make our way out of earshot from Mulciber, “Except without the danger of being killed. Unless you think that’s hot, which wouldn’t surprise me to be honest.”

Harry rolls his eyes and elbows me in the side, but one glance at his face beneath the weak streetlights tells me that he’s holding back a smirk.

We get back and repeat the events to Longbottom when we run into him, asking him to pass on the message, then we make our way to Harry’s room, our hands clasped together, and I’m so tired of our days being broken up by what we _ought_ to be doing. All I want is to be with him.

I close the door behind us and he pushes me up against it, his lips crashing against mine, and I slide my hands beneath his shirt, fingers pressing into his back, the need to have him as close as possible taking over.

“We should move to the bed,” Harry says, tearing his mouth away from mine to trail kisses down my neck. “Unless you want me to fuck you against the wall…”

“You’re so uncivilized,” I say, and though I have to admit that the idea is tempting, I push gently against his chest, and we move over to the bed. I kick off my shoes, and sit, pulling him down with me. I kiss him eagerly, open mouthed, hands wandering, breaking off only for long enough for us to pull our shirts over our heads. There’s always a moment of thrill that comes with the feeling of his bare skin against mine, and I let out a shaky sigh as his hands move over my chest. My fingers are tangled in his hair, and if I pull too hard as his hands slide lower, unfastening the zip of my trousers, he doesn’t complain.

Suddenly he freezes, his face a few inches from mine as he lies on top of me. The he gasps and pulls away, eyes wide with shock and horror. He practically falls off the bed, stumbling back against the wall, breathing heavily, staring down at his hands.

“Harry, what the hell?”

He doesn’t respond to me, and I blink, trying to adjust to the change in his mood without much success. There are tears streaming down his face now, and amongst his heavy, shaky breaths, words start to slip out.

“No, I didn’t- that wasn’t… _No,_ no,” He says, shaking his head, and I’m barely able to pick out his words amongst his half sobs. He looks small now, immediately diminished, like an entirely different person.

I climb off the bed too and rush over to him. I hesitate before I touch him, afraid that in this state he’ll think I’m trying to attack him, so I hold back for now. “Harry what’s going on? Tell me how to help, I…” But I don’t know what else to do, he shows no sign of even being aware that I’m here, and his eyes are still fixed on the bed.

“Help me, someone- please, someone help,” He says, louder now, his voice shaking. He repeats his plea, over and over until he’s shouting, half screaming, and it’s like a hook in my gut. I try to calm him but it’s useless.

The door flies open and someone rushes in. “What the hell’s going on?” I turn, and look up to see Ron standing in the doorway, a small crowd forming behind him, though whether they want to help or just have something to gossip about, I can’t tell. Fortunately Ron urges most of them to leave, aside from the Lovegood girl.

“What happened?” He asks, all colour drained from his face.

“I don’t know, we were- all of a sudden he just… I didn’t do anything, Weasley.”

“I never said you did.” Ron crouches on the floor in front of Harry, gently pulling his hands away from his face, his expression soft, concerned, a little terrified. “What’s wrong? What do you see?”

Harry takes a deep breath, gradually growing quiet as he meets Ron’s gaze. It takes several minutes, and a stream of calm reassurance from the three of us, before he seems to snap out of it completely. He looks back up at the bed, frowning, then turns to look at me, sighing with what sounds like relief.

“Harry,” Luna says, and I’ve never noticed until now how calming her voice is, “You’re safe. Did you see something?”

“I umm…” His voice is raw, still shaking, and he doesn’t take his eyes off me. “Something snapped, and he got a glimpse of my mind, and I guess… I guess he thought this would be fun.”

I take his hand, hoping that it’s enough to stop Voldemort from taking him completely. “Thought what would be fun?”

“I…” Harry shakes his head, “There was a knife in my hands, and I saw myself- but I couldn’t stop it, and there was blood…” I wrap my arms around him, letting him collapse against me, just holding him as tight as I can and wishing there was something I could do, _anything,_ instead of letting him fight against this alone. “But you’re okay,” He says, as though I’m the one we should be worrying about, “It’s fine, you’re okay.”

I stay like that until he’s stop shaking. Ron and Luna leave to reassure everyone that Harry is alright, even though we all know it’s a lie. If Voldemort has this much control over him, if he can weaken him like this, we have less time than we thought.

 

I find the strongest sleeping potion in our stores and insist that Harry drinks it, and after telling everyone over a dozen times that I’ll take care of him, I go to bed too. I don’t sleep at all, just listen to the sound of his breathing, alert in case he has any nightmares. He mutters occasionally in Parseltongue, but otherwise sleeps soundly.

The next day, I try to get updates on the plan to find the snake, but Hermione dismisses my questions, telling me there have been no further advancements. I tell her we’re running out of time, and she clenches her jaw, fire in her eyes, as she tells me she _knows._

Harry seems okay, considering what happened. He does his best to avoid as many people as possible, and he’s quiet, pale, there’s terror in his eyes even though I know he’s trying hard not to show it.

And over the next few days, the suspicions I’ve had for a while now, my questions about where this connection comes from, begin to solidify, until I can’t get them out of my head. Several times I almost voice my fears, simply from the strain of keeping them locked away, of trying to think of anything else, and it’s only worries of the choices I would have to make if they were confirmed that keep me from talking.

Hermione and I sit together one night once everyone else has gone to bed, Ron took Rose back to their room, but Hermione said she wanted to speak to me. For a while, she says nothing, and we sit in silence. Normally I don’t mind the quiet, but my thoughts are too busy at the moment to enjoy being left to contemplate them for very long.

“You’d do anything for him,” She says eventually. “I would too; he’s my best friend.” I don’t reply, just look up at her and wait for her to continue. “I want you to know that, Draco. I love him _so much._ And I can’t just sit by as he loses himself, it’s breaking my heart.”

“Mine too,” I admit.

She smiles sadly. “That’s why I’ve kept quiet for so long.”

My stomach twists into knots at her words, and I barely have the breath to reply, “What do you mean?”

Hermione takes a deep breath. “We’ve figured out a way to get into You Know Who’s hideout, to kill the snake. We’re ready to do it as early as tomorrow.”

“What? That’s good news, isn’t it?” I try to sound elated, as I know I should be at hearing this, but her tone is grave and instead I find myself preparing for the worst.

“Even if we kill the snake, he still won’t be mortal,” She says, “I think you know that, Draco.”

I don’t want to be the one to say it. I _can’t._ Saying it out loud will make it real.

“You’ve worked it out, haven’t you? I’ve seen the way you look at him sometimes, when he’s not entirely _Harry,_ ” She looks down at her hands, clasped tightly on her lap, “You know why Harry’s mind is so tangled up with You Know Who’s, why he feels what _he’s_ feeling, sees what You Know Who wants him to… You’re smart. You must know…” She’s rambling, uncertain, afraid of voicing her fears for the first time.

So I take over, interrupt her so she doesn’t have to keep talking in her shaky, wary voice, sick of dodging around the topic. “I think I’ve known for a while now. He’s-“

“Yes.”

A Horcrux. The one Voldemort didn’t mean to make.

I stand up, running my hands through my hair with a sort of desperation, trying to distance myself from this, wanting to get away. “How long have you known?” I ask her, even though I don’t want to hear any of this, I want this conversation to be over.

She looks away. “A long time.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because I can’t think of any way to destroy it without…” Her breath catches, her words falter. I understand her. Perfectly. We’re all willing to find any other way to stop Voldemort, but to save Harry too. We want it all, to protect everyone, to get out of this with our lives intact. Once I only cared about Harry. But other things matter now. I’ve seen what Voldemort is capable of, and know what the world will become if no one stops him.

“We have to tell him.”

“No,” Hermione says calmly, and shakes her head. Silent tears roll down her cheeks, and she doesn’t brush them away. “He’s not the man he was. We need to defeat You Know Who, and we can’t do that as long as there are Horcruxes surviving, as long as Harry is still alive. We’ll only have a small window of opportunity, and I don’t think that Harry would…”

He’s not strong enough to make that decision anymore- we both know it. And even though he has every right to know, to have a choice, we just can’t know that he’d make the right one. That’s not his fault. Neither of us think that.

“Why are you telling me this?”

Why does she want me to make this choice? Why is she putting this on my shoulders?

I don’t want this. I don’t want to have to decide Harry’s fate. Why should I have that responsibility? I just want to be with Harry. A part of me had always clung to the hope that one day I’d get that. Harry without the danger of war.

“He trusts you,” Hermione says, a little bitterly. She exhales slowly, purses her lips, and I wonder how long she’s suspected that it might end this way. “I don’t know why, all you’ve ever done is disappoint and betray him, but there it is. And you still have links with the Death Eaters.”

“You want me to set him up?” I feel like I’m standing and watching myself, unable to believe that I wouldn’t even protest, that all I need is clarification.

“I think it needs to be You Know Who that finishes it. He’s the only one that would be able to destroy that part of Harry.”

Destroy _all_ of Harry, I want to point out. Not just the evil in his soul, but all the good in him too. If I agree to this, it’ll all be gone. His eyes, a brighter green than anything I’ve ever known, will be lost to me. His determination to keep going, even now when the struggle inside his own thoughts is draining him, to never even consider just letting Voldemort win, that will be gone too. His hands on my body, his lips pressing against mine desperately, tenderly, the way his hair feels when I run my fingers through it, the songs he turns up when they play on the radio so we can dance- those will all remain only in my memory.

But that’s not enough to justify sacrificing the Wizarding World. It’s just not. Not matter how I feel about Harry Potter, even though he’s become so much more important to me than I ever could have imagined, despite the fact that picturing my life without him conjures only a sensation of a crater in my chest, I know enough about this war to understand what has to be done.

“For what it’s worth,” Granger says, looking over at me and perhaps seeing my acceptance, “I’m sorry. And I’ll make sure they tell your story favorably.”

I breathe out a mocking laugh. “Let people say what they want.”

“You’re a good man, Draco,” She lies. I suppose it’s all she can do.

“No. Harry’s a good man. I’m just…” I shake my head.

“Ask him to meet you outside the café in the nearby town tomorrow morning, I know the two of you have been there before. And… Our people will go to destroy the snake, Neville’s leading the group,” Hermione continues, forcing her tone to be clinical and detached, “Once it’s done, we’ll send in all the forces we have. Destroy You Know Who, end it. He’ll be weak. Then… It might just be over.”

There are so many things I want to say. I won’t come back here once it’s done. I don’t know what I’ll do, but I know I can’t be here. So perhaps I should make a last request. I want to ask her not to tell James about me, or to tell her that she should place the blame on me if anyone asks, to say she tried to stop me. I want to shout at her for not seeming to realize how much I care about Harry.

“What if you’re wrong?” I say, and I feel myself tearing apart inside, “What if he dies for nothing?”  
“I’m not wrong,” She tells me with certainty that I can’t argue with. “As long as Harry lives, so does You Know Who. And the wizarding world-”

“I don’t care about that!” I say, struggling to keep my voice level, to stop myself from shouting and screaming, “I just care about _him,_ I can’t lose him, I can’t…”

“I’m sorry.” The tears are falling down her face rapidly now, and she’s close to falling apart too. “I really am, but we don’t have a choice. Surely you know that.” I shake my head, not necessarily disagreeing with her, but just wanting this not to be happening, to make it all stop. “So many more people will suffer if the world continues on like this. Other countries will fall, eventually the Muggle governments will collapse too, if we don’t act soon then there’ll be no way to fix it. We both know that if Harry was still strong enough, he would do whatever it takes to end this.”

“This isn’t him though,” I say, “This is me, betraying him, sending him to die. It’s not some noble sacrifice or-”

“You think I don’t know that? _Fuck,_ if there was any other way, and believe me I have considered _every_ option, I would do it in a heartbeat,” She purses her lips, and I think with an ache of sympathy of what it must have been like, all these years, carrying around this certainty of how it had to end, _knowing_ all along that Harry would never see peace. And no matter how many times I think it over, there’s no way to escape the fact that this really is the only way we can stop Voldemort.

I nod stiffly. “Fine,” I say, my voice catching as I try to speak, and I swallow my pain as I continue, “I’ll do it. Tell Neville to get ready.” Then I turn away and walk down the corridor to Harry’s room. I reach it too quickly, and realize that I don’t know how to speak to him.

He’s already half asleep.

I linger in the doorway for a moment, and my heart aches so much that I can’t find the words for it. Harry props himself up onto his side, giving me a slightly bleary smile.

“You just gonna stand there?” He mumbles. I force a laugh and cross the room, taking off my shoes and pulling off my trousers, leaving them crumpled on the floor, and sit on the bed next to him, leaning forwards to kiss him softly. I have memorized everything about the way his body feels against mine. I know the feel of his lips and the taste of his mouth, the way his hands instinctually rest on my waist and slide beneath my shirt. When I leave a trail of kisses along his jawline and neck, I know the exact sigh of pleasure that escapes his lips when I suck on the skin above his collar bone. I press my lips to his again, kissing him slowly, not letting myself become completely lost in the sensation and instead trying to focus on the exact way that our bodies fit together, terrified that one day I might forget. This is it. This is the last time. Kissing him has always felt desperate, needy, like the end of the world is racing towards us, but I have never considered that our last kiss would fill me with despair rather than frenzied desire. Tears sting my eyes and I pray that they won’t fall. So when he smirks in that way that’s all too familiar, hands finding a lower place to rest, I shake my head. I force myself to pull away.

“What’s wrong?” His voice is equal parts disappointment and concern.

“Just,” I take his hands, clasp them in my own, my thumb gently brushing circles on his skin, “Not tonight. Sorry.” I don’t want him to get suspicious, for him to be worried or think something is the matter, and the excuse I give him isn’t exactly a lie. “I’m just too worried about Astoria. It’s been a few days and… I keep imagining that something’s happened to her.”

He gets this look in his eyes when I express concern for someone, like he can’t quite believe it, like he’s almost proud. It used to annoy me. I can’t bring myself to be irritated by it now though, not when he has every right to be surprised that I would care about anyone, not when he won’t even be the first person to die because of me.

“Tomorrow,” He says, leaning forwards and kissing me, a chaste brush of lips that’s over too quickly, “I’ll look into it. I promi-“ I cut him off with a kiss, and maybe he thinks it’s me thanking him, but it’s far more selfish than that. I just want him to stop acting like he should help me, like he owes me anything. I want him to stop talking because it hurts me so much, now that I know how this has to end.

It’s not fair on him, when I lie with my back to him and he still wraps his arms around me, and all I can think of is planning how I’m going to do this. He presses kisses to the back of my neck and I draft a letter to Voldemort in my mind, work out how to phrase it so he’ll believe me.

“Draco?” Harry whispers, his voice taking on that tone reserved only for late night confessions, “I’m sorry about the other day. It must have freaked you out.”

I hesitate, because normally I would say something like, _“It’s alright Potter, I’m used to your attention seeking behavior by now,”_ and he would know that was me telling him everything was okay, that I understood. That feels wrong tonight though. If I can’t be honest about how we’re going to win the war, then maybe I should start being honest about how I feel. Start admitting to myself that there’s never been anyone like him in my life, and there’ll never be anyone else, and the vastness of what I feel for Harry has consumed me and I don’t know what I’d be if it wasn’t for him.

“It’s not your fault,” I say, but I keep my back to him so he can’t see my face, “None of it is. Don’t… You can’t blame yourself for not always being able to keep him out. Not many people have the strength you have, to have kept going this long.” Other words burn at the tip of my tongue, words I’m too scared to acknowledge, and even if I did, now would be the wrong time to say them.

“I’m going to kill him,” Harry says. His voice is cold, full of rage and hatred and I so rarely hear him talk like this. “Next time I face him, I’ll kill him. And I’ll kill any Death Eaters that try to stand in my way.”

I don’t argue with that. What is there for me to say?

Hermione’s right. She’s right about a lot of things, but this time it seems to beat in my heart, what she said about Harry not being able to make this decision any more. If he’d learned of this years ago, if he’d understood the situation fully, I’m sure that he’d have gone to Voldemort willingly, if he knew that it might just give the world a chance to be free of his evil.

“It’s my duty to stop him,” Harry continues, and I wonder whether he’s just thinking out loud now, “I’m the Chosen One.”

What does that even mean?

I turn, shifting my body so I can face him. “We’ll stop him, Harry,” I promise, struggling to keep my voice steady, “We will end this.”

He hums in quiet agreement, and I’m not sure whether he’s stopped talking because he’s tired, or because he’s simply overwhelmed by how much there’s still to do. Our world is a wreck now. We talk about killing Voldemort like that will fix everything, like it will all go back to the way it was, but it’ll take years before any sort of normality returns.

He won’t be around to see that though.

At least if this works, some of us will be.

My head is spinning with thoughts, and even when Harry falls asleep, I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sound of his breathing.

I don’t know much about love. It’s almost destroyed me and I’m still not sure whether I fully understand it. But I do know, now with a clarity that aches and burns in my chest, that I love Harry. I’m really, hopelessly, in love with him. The realization doesn’t shock me as much as I thought it would, understanding finally that this was never casual or unimportant, and I must have known for a while. Maybe I’ve always known, and was just trying to convince myself that I didn’t need him.

Of course, it’s on the night that I know I have to lose him that I realize he’s the only person I can’t live without anymore.

I think back to Granger’s words at the funeral a few weeks back, when I asked her what the point was of loving someone as much as Dean had, when this war means people are torn from each other all the time.

“’Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”

I’m not sure whether I believe her, not when love has so rarely caused me any joy.

Before Harry, I had let myself grow numb to all of it. That kiss in the dungeon that day, it was like finally waking up.

My mother died because I love Harry too much. Harry’s friends died because of my love for Astoria. And Harry will die because he’s the one that taught me what it means to fight for others, to know they deserve a chance at love as well.

And I can’t bring myself to be grateful for any of the good days, because there have been too few of them. Half my memories of Harry are tinged by our loathing of each other, or his disappointment, or my betrayals, and even the good days will soon be ruined by what I’m about to do.

Once I’m sure that he’s asleep, I sit up, slowly, each movement feeling like I’m dragging my body through mud, and find a piece of parchment, a quill, and some ink in one of Harry’s drawers. I scratch out a quick note, asking if he wants to get breakfast tomorrow morning. I’ll get there early and slip something into the owner’s drink so she has to close the place for the day- I don’t want any innocent bystanders to get caught up in this. I’ll have to set up a small barrier as well, so he can’t Disapperate away at the first sign of danger.

I place the note under his pillow, and my hand brushes against his. I’m shaking a little. I’ll have to do something about that in the morning, when I have to convince him that everything is fine, so that he trusts me until the last possible moment.

Then I write another note, stating the same time and place, but a different promise.

 _I can hand Harry Potter over to you,_ I write. _I know I have betrayed you before, and for that I am deeply sorry. I cannot begin to put into words how much I regret my actions, how I abhor myself for turning against you. My Lord, you have to believe that it was not by choice; I have been tricked, deceived, manipulated, but now I see the truth._

_Perhaps you think I am making a false promise, and I do not know how to convince you that I am not. Send some Death Eaters to the specified location, and I will meet them there, with Harry Potter. Just Harry. I give him to you as an offering, so that you might judge me favorably when this is all over. Once your Death Eaters confirm that I am telling the truth, they can summon you. Of course, I will have to charm the area, so you will have to Apperate slightly outside. I hope this is not too much of an inconvenience, but I thought it would be better if Harry cannot escape._

_He will be disguised, but I will greet him with a kiss so that they know who he is._

I pause after writing that. It’s a strange thing to say, selfish really, giving myself that last chance to kiss him before I send him to his death.

When he dies, he’ll think I never cared about him, I realize suddenly, and my heart seems to stop. He’ll die thinking that I don’t love him, that I never did, and that every moment we’ve been together, I’ve been planning his death. When he last looks at my face, it will be with hatred, and pain, and grief and betrayal.

And I will have to convince him to think that, because otherwise Voldemort will know this is about more than simply appeasing him.

I walk over to the owl sitting in her cage in the corner. We hardly use the owls here, it’s usually too dangerous to send mail, but occasionally we have need for them.

And I tie the letter around her leg, carrying her over the window. She stares at me with her wide, dark eyes, like she knows what I’m planning, and I whisper softly to her that I don’t have a choice. When I let her out into the dark silence of the night, Harry barely stirs at the sound of her wings.

It’s done then.

I take one last look at him, this boy who has only ever wanted to protect and help people, who has put his life on the line over and over again, who trusted me when no one else would. He’s been corrupted by Voldemort’s mind, and it’s turned him into someone he isn’t, but people will still remember him as a good man, one who made the ultimate sacrifice.

I think bitterly that I’m making a sacrifice too, that no one will ever consider that, but then I dismiss this thought with a twinge of guilt. I don’t deserve pity, or forgiveness, and I know that. I don’t care about Hermione’s promise to make sure people remember me in a good light, not when what I’ve done, not just today but for almost my whole life, gives me no right to be thought of fondly.

I love him, and I wish I’d realized months ago, wish that I’d told him every day, and then maybe he’d understand. Maybe, when he faces Voldemort tomorrow he’d understand that it’s because I love him that I have to do this.

I can’t stand to stay here anymore, and watch his numbered breaths, know that his heartbeat is counting down, that in a few hours there’ll be nothing. So I leave, I walk out the door and don’t look back, I don’t let myself think until I find the toilets. I lock myself in a cubicle and shake with sobs, let them tear through my body and I pray that eventually I will be empty of all this pain, that it will all leave my body in tears and ragged gasps for breath.

**Author's Note:**

> I've planned out most of the major plot points, and no matter how long it is between updates I am NOT going to abandon this. Just, hang in there if it's a while before a new chapter. You should follow me on tumblr (therewas-courfeyrac) for updates, and also, check out my playlist inspired by Loved and Lost https://8tracks.com/teamusicandbooks/loved-and-lost ALSO my girlfriend made a really wonderful playlist inspired by this fic which you should definitely check out http://8tracks.com/morgan-a/falling-to-the-ground


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